


A Night to Remember

by eohippus



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brothers, Crimes & Criminals, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Family, Father-Son-Conflict, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Drama, Psychological Trauma, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 34,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eohippus/pseuds/eohippus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just barely graduated from university, and been given a second chance on a normal life, Sherlock loathes his existence as a decent member of society. His independent spirit wants more from life than the dull existence as a government employee, promoted due to his connection to the Holmes family. But trying to regain his independence comes with a price. Rated T due to mentioning of drug use and other nasty stuff. Backstory to some events in "The Movement of Bees".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Daring Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta´d by the amazing Impractical Beekeeping. May the hive always be with you :) !

It is extraordinary how the mind works. It can conjure up memories and images of the past in a flash, in a moment of blazing clarity which propels the person who remembers back to an earlier life, to instances forgotten or willfully deleted. Time seems to rewind back to whatever the mind deems necessary to point at that particular moment.

Thus, when Sherlock asks John to use his imagination on what he would be thinking in the last moments of his life, and John replies "Dear God, let me live", the whirlwind of energy which is Sherlock´s mind pauses for a long, painful second.

Because this is exactly what he has found himself silently praying on one particular night years ago, a night he normally does his best to avoid remembering.

It takes him all his willpower to reboot his brain, which threatens to lose itself in this memory, and return to the case at hand. But he knows now that he and John do share an experience, even though circumstances can´t be more different.

They both know what it means to silently beg for their lives.

* * *

"Hey, laddie, fancy a drink on a Friday night? Don´t keep yourself cooped up in this respectable building for too long, you might end up like your brother – stiff and humourless like his umbrella."

The young, blonde man who is leaning in the open door to Sherlock´s small office is sending him a mischievous smile, but Sherlock just shakes his head curtly.

"No thank you, Connor. I´ve still a report to write, and anyway, I do have an appointment to keep", he reclines the friendly offer.

Connors smile fades into an expression of serious concern. "Look, you´ve been here for a month and you´ve hardly spoken to anyone. It would certainly help to melt the ice if you came along for a pint or two." The Irishman´s eyes twinkle again. "Bet you have a lot of Holmes family secrets to tell. Would be most entertaining, I presume," he adds with a mock posh accent reminiscent of Sherlock´s elder brother.

Sherlock, who has started to return to his computer screen, pauses and frowns at Connor. His colleague has been doing his best in trying to coax him into the company of his fellow-workers, but Sherlock is just not interested. He has spent many years at school and university in solitude, after all, and has come to regard casual chats as merely a waste of time. He has lived through too many incidents when people, outraged by his observations, have turned on him. Their support is based on the mutual agreement not to ask too many questions and to accept half-truths and lies without further questioning. Sherlock, however, has never excelled in hiding his observations, opinions and conclusions. He is far too thrilled to connect the data his never-resting mind collects to set the pieces together to form complete images. And, as much as he might wish he could, he can´t stop the fast-calculating processor in his head to contaminate it with the mundane. Besides, he reasons with himself, he urgently needs a change of scene tonight, to forget the oppressing circumstances he has been forced to accept for the past four weeks. He desperately needs a change of condition, actually.

Absent-mindedly, Sherlock rubs gently at his left wrist. It´s a good thing that Connor is a far too trusting soul to get suspicious at the gesture. Instead, he sighs dramatically, and pushes himself off the doorframe. "Too bad. Guess I can´t convince you to change your mind. Of course you can´t possibly stick around with me when you´ve already decided to grace someone else with your company." He winks." I only hope the lady knows to be grateful for the honour. Lunch on Monday?"

Sherlock nods, more because he wills Connor to leave than because he is truly interested in his company during lunch break. Even though the Irishman seems to be a decent enough fellow, Sherlock had no desire to engage himself in tedious social interactions and necessities. He barely listens to Connor´s words of goodbye, instead, he continued to stare blankly at the computer screen, his mind rewinding his father´s latest lecture on talent, duty and gratefulness.

Involuntarily, his fists ball, and he brings his right down on the table, hard. Gingerly, he opens his hurting fingers, staring blindly at the calluses there, a reminder that life consists of so much more than his father´s most favoured values. Again, he feels a tightness in his chest and his pulse quickens as he realizes that he is trapped, imprisoned within the walls of this unofficial governmental facility, under the tight surveillance of one of Mycroft´s closest friends.

The so-called second chance his family has offered him after his first arrest for possession and three months in rehab feels actually worse than a life sentence. He feels smothered by their concern, devoid of any wish to live up to their expectations, especially his father´s. He feels extinct.

Neither the insufferable, dull company nor the sentimental caring of fellow human beings is helping him to keep his appearance. To solely rely on himself is what protects him best – from all his fears, useless hopes and disturbing feelings. And he is not willing to give up the remedy of chemical substances which are powerful enough to change who he is.

His fingers find the switch to shut the device down, and he grabs his coat and scarf and leaves the office swiftly, his fingertips already tingling in anticipation.

* * *

Sherlock steps outside the hateful building, and feels instantly lighter, despite the fierce wind which threatens to rip his jacket off him. He closes it swiftly and huddles into the familiar warmth of his scarf, already feeling more like himself. Contrary to his brother, he tends to feel stifled if he stays inside for too long and prefers to expose himself to the elements. It´s not only curiosity which allures him to test his resilience against nature´s whims, it´s his independent spirit which needs the challenge and the accompanying feeling of freedom and space.

He shakes a cigarette from its package and fumbles for his lighter while he starts walking. The first drag and the fresh winter air contribute to clearing his mind, and he steps forward with a new determination in his stride, disregarding the headache which has been building up for the past hour.

He observes employees bustling from the surrounding buildings towards the nearest tube stations, and already feels detached, like an art connoisseur regarding a tableau of enigmatically arranged forms and colours, blending into each other. It is not a friendly picture he sees, as winter has not been kind to London´s citizens so far. Persistent gales from the North Sea have been carrying cold, damp air into the capital. It has been thoroughly uncomfortable for everybody, the streets freezing and wet, the stores and offices drafty and overheated in the vain attempt to retain a semblance of warmth in the buildings.

Sherlock couldn´t care less, although he considers snow an improvement, for it dampens the maddening hyperactivity in the city. Snow would help to him to remember cheerful childhood days spent at his family´s home. It would keep his mind from the fact that he is staying in a metropolis, a spot where one´s position and wealth is tremendously overrated. It would divert him from the fact that he does not feel right in his life. Not in the position his father has recommended him into, where he is supposed to conduct research for a secret governmental project, and bullied by a boss with a violent temper and no preference for objections.

Sherlock´s independent spirit revolts against instructions he regards as absurd, and he refuses to believe in the significance of his experiments and analyses. To make matters worse, his reports and recommendations seem to simply disappear somewhere within the institution´s communication channels, never leaving an impact on an ongoing investigation. Frequently, he is warned to be patient, to just continue with his tasks without asking too many questions. But he can´t abide to stay quiet whenever he discovers a puzzle to solve.

Even though he has long figured out that it is those who are able to socialize successfully with the influential persons who will be promoted, he can´t be bothered to keep his mouth shut whenever he knows that he´s right. It is most certain that he will not get farther than his current position anytime soon, which will most certainly annoy his father to no end, as it adds proof to his senior´s observation that Sherlock is a failure, the black sheep of the Holmes family.

Which he is, actually. To his knowledge, no one of his nearer and farther kin has nurtured a less socially acceptable vice than drinking.

He takes another drag on his cigarette and turns around the next corner, away from the mundane and commonplace, into his very own realm of substantiality and experience.


	2. Catching a Straw

Mycroft watches glistening raindrops running down the railing of an Underground entrance mere yards from his seat near the vast window of a French restaurant. It´s one of his favourite places for lunch, lovingly decorated to resemble a typical Parisian Bistro, the food superb. Mycroft is kept waiting, which is not something which happens to him frequently. Usually he is right on time. Whenever he chooses to strategically arrive a few minutes later, he is dealing with a subordinate or wanting to make a point. But the man he is going to meet is immensely busy and known to be late for his business meetings. Rumour has it that this certain individual has even kept Her Majesty waiting once, and Mycroft gathers that the ten minutes he is forced to observe this particular stretch of a central London road are indicating intimacy rather than pure thoughtlessness. At least he assumes they do, for the sake of his companion.

Andrew Wainwright enters the restaurant exactly ten minutes past the appointed time, as predicted, his unkempt grey hair and flying coat seemingly taking up all the space between the tiny tables. He greets Mycroft even before he has reached him, over the heads of two other customers, and heaves his heavy frame onto the fragile French chair. "Mycroft. Always a pleasure."

Mycroft, catching himself thinking the pleasure is not his, sends a polite smile back, involuntarily cocking an eyebrow. He knows the elder man does consider himself a friend of the Holmes family. Mycroft, though, has never been fond of Andrew´s joviality and lack of good manners. Were it not for his father, he would avoid any close contact with the scientist. But he has agreed to keep track of Sherlock´s work at Wainwright´s institution, and he can hardly refuse to talk to him.

"It is indeed," he replies. "I am most grateful that you could make time for our meeting."

Wainwright smiles and waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, don´t worry. I perfectly understand Edward´s motivation. He must have been more than unhappy about your younger brother´s misadventure."

Mycroft send a tight smile back, his eyes cold. "This is why we are meeting," he says. "My father has required an update on Sherlock´s progress."

Andrew leans back in his seat, his head turned sideways towards the adjoining tables, his right hand waving imperiously at a waiter who passes through towards the kitchen door. "No need to get angry, Mycroft. Your brother´s permanent disobedience is hardly a family secret anymore. He has not been very discreet about his vice himself, after all."

A jolt of anger at Andrew´s dismissive attitude shakes Mycroft, and he takes a deep breath to keep his hands steady. He and his father have done all in their power to keep Sherlock´s arrest and subsequent transfer to a rehabilitation faculty secret. Edward Holmes had confided in Andrew after a prolonged period of consideration. If anything, the Holmes family has always been apt at discretion, a talent Sherlock has made a habit of raging against. But as much as he loathes dishonesty, even he would treat delicate subjects with care.

Mycroft suppresses his fury, glad for the distraction the arrival of the waiter provides. They order, and leave their more serious topic to exchange details on the weather and London gossip. When the main course arrives, though, Mycroft, who has regained his composure, goes straight back to business.

"So, how is my brother doing?" he asks, and Andrew wipes his mouth with his napkin, leaning back with a contended sigh.

"Most excellent, their _lapin du bois_ ," he says, his eyes trailing a cab passing their window. "Ah, yes, your brother." He leans forward again. "He certainly works hard enough, and undoubtedly he is a brilliant chemist with a vast knowledge of forensics. I am very sorry to observe, though, that he is not able to concentrate on his tasks."

"What do you mean?" asks Mycroft, startled.

Andrew takes hold of his glass, playing with its stem. "He… strays. He interferes with his colleague´s research, comments on their reports. He simply doesn´t know his boundaries, and hardly anyone takes his attitude well. He even goes so far to call his colleague´s observations 'dull' and 'boring', and never tires to point out flaws in their analyses when he spots them." Andrew sighs. "Today, I called him in for a meeting, to confront him with several allegations. But he only responded that he couldn´t change how he perceives details, and that our rules and administrations are slowing him down. To be perfectly honest, Mycroft, I doubt that he will last very much longer if he doesn´t adapt. I simply cannot tolerate discord in my team. Our work is far too important to be seriously hindered by petty feuds among co-workers."

"I see." Mycroft clasps his hands, the tips of his index fingers touching his chin in a gesture of concentration. Obviously the detached quiet Sherlock has lived in after his stay in rehab has come to an end. He fleetingly wonders, not for the first time, whether providing his brother with a reputable job was a good idea, after all. The whirlwind of Sherlock´s mind has never reacted well to tedium and routine, with the single exception of his devotion to music. Mycroft wonders whether his brother uses his sharp tongue and scathing wit as a means of escaping a situation he perceives as desperate. He wonders whether a word with his brother will help at all.

He folds his napkin and places it beside his plate, ready to rise. "I am sorry I have to leave so soon, Andrew, but I need to get back to work."

Andrew grunts and waves a dismissive hand towards the table. "Matters of state, hum? Oh, that´s perfectly well with me – at least you won´t be witness when I indulge in the dessert," he replies with a twinkle, and Mycroft stands.

The elder man looks up at him, a mischievous smile gracing his lips. "Please give my regards to Sherlock. I have been rather lenient with him, out of respect for Edward, but you both know I am not known as a very patient man."

Mycroft just nods curtly, adjusts his jacket and walks away. His next meeting might even be more taxing than this one was, he muses wryly.

* * *

Smooth wood resting under his chin. The reassuring contour of the bow. Hard, narrow lines under his fingertips, no longer biting his flesh after years of practice. They are the veins of his instrument´s resonating body. Its voice fills the stale air of his tiny living room, transforming it into a whole new universe where solid things and fragile bodies have no home, only sound. Rhythm and movement are blending together, soothing the maelstrom in his mind, carrying him away from reality, to somewhere ethereal and indefinite. The calm and the storm, this is the story his violin is whispering and crying to him today, and he nearly forgets what they do signify for him. He´s perfectly lost in the moment, and all is well.

He neither hears the knock on the door, nor the door opening, but a caressing whiff of air touching his naked feet reveals his brother´s presence to him. The universe of music gone, the bow hovering over the strings and his left hand still fingering a chord, he turns his head to regard his sibling with an expression of exhausted annoyance.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" he asks, inwardly relieved that he hasn´t used today - never does in the flat in case his sibling decides to pry at him. He is not pleased to see his watchdog of a brother, never is. Part of his rejection is fuelled by guilt. For the past years he has rarely been perfectly honest with his brother. That they have shared a period of their lives when they absolutely trusted each other only contributes to his remorse. This is why he snaps, at the same time knowing that all his scathing remarks will not be enough to make his sibling shy away.

As expected, Mycroft is a statue of calm. He sweeps a pile of books from the only chair in the room and regards his surroundings. "You´ve settled in already," he states in a conversational tone, prodding the front page of a newspaper at his feet with the tip of his umbrella. There is no mockery in his voice, and yet Sherlock can´t decipher whether his brother´s remark is supposed to be more than a simple statement. His flat is in a constant state of disregard, scattered books and newspapers an indication of how little he cares about tidiness. But certainly Mycroft is not paying him a visit to comment on his sense of array, so he impatiently repeats his question.

"There is something I´d like to discuss over a cup of tea," Mycroft replies and watches sternly as Sherlock grudgingly sets the kettle on the stove and retrieves two antique cups from a surprisingly tidy box.

"Are those grandmother´s?" Mycroft can´t refrain to ask, and Sherlock nods, vanishing to the tiny kitchen. He reemerges a few minutes later, holding a tray carrying a cheap, clumsy teapot and the fragile bone china cups. As soon as it sits safely on a small table at Mycroft´s elbow, he lets himself sink to the floor, folding his legs under him. "I won´t ask you a third time," he warns, and Mycroft tells him about his encounter with Wainwright and his warning.

Sherlock is about to jump up and protest, but his brother stalls him with a raised hand. "There´s something else, and it´s more serious than your conflict with your superior," he says. "Inspector Lestrade wants to see you."

Sherlock draws his brows together, tiny wrinkles appearing at the root of his nose. "What for?" he asks. "Does he still think I am member of a drug trafficking gang?"

"You certainly carried enough to raise the suspicion," Mycroft answers in his most serious tone, reminiscent of their father, stalling Sherlock´s instantaneous protest with a quirk of his eyebrows . "Actually, he seemed rather impressed with your powers of observation. Obviously, the Yard is searching for a suspect they consider the head of the drug trafficking ring they were trying to disintegrate five months ago. Lestrade told me the raids on London´s clubs during the past five months were part of a vast intimidation scheme. You were caught right in the middle of it. Presumably, you must have told the officer something he remembered recently and regarded as important. He wants to question you. I told him you´ll go see him next Wednesday."

"So you are not just gathering information on my working life and whereabouts for father, you are responsible for my schedule, too?" Sherlock asks in a scathing tone, and Mycroft realises he might have acted a bit too rashly in assuring Lestrade of his brother´s help. Their talk had been much more intensive, though, the policeman pointing out he sensed potential in Sherlock´s observation skills, indicating that he pondered the probability of using someone with comparable talents as a consultant. Mycroft sees no reason to reveal all this to Sherlock yet, though – there are boundaries to his interfering with his brother´s life.

Sherlock draws the dressing gown he is wearing tighter around his gaunt frame, waiting for a reply. "I am not, and I don´t have any intention of acting as your secretary," Mycroft replies after a sip of tea. "He told me he will be available in the afternoon, and like to have a word. And I decided there and then it might be a good idea for you to meet him, so I didn´t text for your approval."

The elder Holmes doesn´t need to add that he considers the Yarder´s interest a chance for his brother, since they both know that Sherlock has always been intrigued by puzzles and has studied anatomy and forensics for a reason. He has never voiced his interest in crimes, but Mycroft knows that his brother considers them one of the most demanding and rewarding puzzles he would be able to solve, if only for their significance. Sherlock senses that his elder sibling might have provided him with a straw he can claw onto to escape the puddle of routine he is trapped in. For once, he is grateful for his brother´s interference. He looks up, straight into Mycroft´s eyes.

"If he insists. I´ll go," he says and to Mycroft it sounds for once not like a declaration of war, but of victory.


	3. New Acquaintances

Detective Inspector Lestrade has spent ten years on the drugs squad, but he can´t remember a single case when he called in a user – or former user - to ask him for advice on his work. He shakes his head at himself and his ridiculous idea, his feet propped on his desk, the lukewarm remains of the horrid coffee the machine one floor below his office produces. Most likely, he will only get stomach cramps from the stuff, but he is an addict in his own right and thrives on the stale fluid and the chocolate bars he keeps in his drawers.

Movement in the hallway causes him to swing his legs off the pile of files and to cross them beneath the table.

A young officer – was his name Miller or Millet? Lestrade muses – opens the door, ushering his visitor in. Grey eyes adept at surveying, observing and analysing take in the slightly ruffled but well-cut suit of the younger man, the wrinkle at the base of his nose, his blue eyes and the dark smudges beneath them.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Lestrade asks, and is instantly awarded with a huff and a snide answer.

"As you have required my presence, and we texted earlier, I would assume that you do know who I am."

Leaning forward in his seat, Lestrade points towards a chair at the opposite side of his desk. "You looked quite different the last time we met," he replies quietly. "Guess I just wanted to make sure you are not a henchman, sent to eliminate me. Please, take a seat."

Sherlock does as asked, his eyes flicking over Lestrade´s desk, the withering fig tree on the shelf behind him and the multiple coffee mugs on the right-hand corner of his desk. His lips turn into an ironic smile.

"Isn´t it strange that a drug´s squad senior officer should be allowed to yield to his cravings for caffeine?"

"Oh, if caffeine were illegal, I guess all of Scotland Yard would be behind bars," Lestrade replies off-handedly, not taking the bait. "First of all, are you on anything other than coffee and cigarettes? Because if you are, we are not going to have this talk."

The younger man shakes his head, defiantly. "The court made pretty sure I went through the usual procedures," he grits through his teeth.

"You are clean, then?" Lestrade knows he might not get an honest answer, but the lad looks much more confident and healthy then when Lestrade arrested him. Thus, when Sherlock nods, he pushes a file towards him.

"Know this man?" he asks, regarding the look of intense concentration on Sherlock´s features. "Go on, you can leaf through it if you want."

It takes several minutes of silence and intensive reading, before Sherlock looks up and pushes the file back towards the policeman.

"Richard Small. He is one of the dodgier dealers of South Bank. I didn´t frequent him, as he is greedy and never delivers good quality. It´s cheap, though, so he gets enough customers."

Lestrade leans back, crossing his arms on his chest. "We suspect him of leading an important drug trafficking ring, but so far we can´t get any closer to him, even though we´ve been observing him 24 hours a day for three months now. There was something you told me when I arrested you, and which I couldn´t get out of my head. You said that he was responsible for the murder of a young girl two years ago."

Suddenly, all signs of impatience seem to leave Sherlock, who has been bouncing his knees while Lestrade has been talking. He nods and looks the Inspector in the eye. "I met him once and noticed he wore a peculiar bracelet, shaped like a leaf, possibly of Peruvian origin. I remembered the Walters case several years ago, where the bracelet of a young girl who had gone missing had disappeared. But, of course, this was not enough evidence to report him to the police, and the trinket was gone when I saw him again."

"What do you think was his motive?" Lestrade asks, intrigued.

"They had a deal. He is notorious for picking out the best-looking users he can find and promising them unrestricted provision with the drug of their choice – in exchange for sexual favours. Laura Walters was struggling with getting clean. Obviously, she had planned to report Small to your department."

Lestrade is tapping the tips of his fingers against his lips. "Hm. I remember a girl who called us, very upset, about Small. But we could never confirm who she was." His lips curve in a wry smile. "What do you make of the photograph?"

"Is this where Small keeps his supply?" Sherlock asks.

"Kept. We think so, yes. But the building looks completely abandoned, as if no one has entered it in years. An anonymous tip has lead us there, but we couldn´t make sense of it."

Sherlock turns the picture, scrutinising it, his brows drawn. "Do you have a JPG of this?" he asks, urgently. Lestrade nods and pushes his computer screen towards his visitor, several images of the room loading in quick succession.

The younger man stares at them, grabs the mouse and enlarges remote corners, window sills and peels of wallpaper. Finally, he points at an inconspicuous stain beneath a window.

"Blood. The indentations here have been refilled with sawdust, hence they are a little bit darker. You can even spot the trace of a heavy boot. They tied their victim to the chair, pushing it towards the window so he would be blinded by the setting sun. You can see from the way the light falls through the window that it looks West. They were thorough, threats first, then one well-aimed knife at his heart, hence the absence of more blood stains. They used the sawdust to inconspicuously cover their traces."

Lestrade watches the young man, who has delivered the last bit of his analysis with verve and at a speed which he nearly failed to be able to follow. He smiles.

"This was brilliant," he says. "Could you meet me at the morgue of St. Bart´s tonight to take a look at a corpse we´ve found in the Thames a week ago?"

Sherlock´s eyes light up in rather indecent glee. "It would be a pleasure," he replies.

* * *

Had it not been for the infernal Corgi, Sherlock would in all probability never have exchanged a word with Victor Trevor. As soon as he leaves Scotland Yard and walks down to the nearest Tube station, there is a high-pitched, aggressive bark behind him. He has hardly the time to turn and meet his hairy opponent before the creature sinks its teeth into his left ankle, growling. Kicking at it with his right foot, he turns to look out for its master, but isn´t able to discern who might be the human appendage of this monster. He finally succeeds in taking hold of the dog´s collar, tugging it tight against the animal´s throat, which, startled, loosens its bite on the human flesh.

"Oh God, I´m so sorry." The man who has materialised at Sherlock´s side has taken hold of the collar, too and holds the raging dog at bay while Sherlock examines his bloodied trousers and the torn flesh at his ankle. He only notices he is slightly shaking when the stranger puts one arm under his, carrying some of his weight, and drags him toward a ledge beneath the window of a nearby shop. As soon as he sits, the pain hits Sherlock with full force, and he stares blindly while the other man wraps a handkerchief around the wound in a vain attempt to still the blood.

"This is bleeding quite profusely," he says. "You´d probably better go to A&E."

Sherlock looks up, startled by the concern and warmth in the stranger´s voice, and shakes his head. "It´s nothing ," he shrugs him off. In fact, his ankle is pounding and he doubts he will even reach the curb to hail a cab, let alone reach the Tube. Inwardly, he curses Mycroft and his frequent trips to Buckingham Palace – the dog´s aggressive behaviour might very well have been triggered by traces of the smell of the Queen´s little, ubiquitous pack.

"Oh yes, it is – and it´s my fault," his counterpart replies. "Wait here, I´ll get us transport." He ties the still barking dog to a lamppost before he straightens to wave towards the traffic.

This is the first time Sherlock gets a good look at him. The stranger is shorter than himself, trained, wearing a casual jacket and boots, but no gloves, despite the cold. His brown hair is straight and cut short, left slightly longer at the sides and his forehead. The reassuring smile he sends Sherlock is clearly intended to cover his embarrassment at having endangered an innocent Londoner with his raging quadruped. Despite his annoyance, Sherlock smiles minutely as he realises that the dog´s master seems to be more upset than the victim of the attack is. Deliberately calming his breathing, he leans back and continues to watch as the stranger finally succeeds in luring a cab from the rush-hour traffic.

Three hours, a tetanus shot, a dose of antibiotics and a trip to the dog´s rightful owner later, and they sit in Sherlock´s small kitchen over a mug of coffee, exchanging their views on art, philosophy and science. While Sherlock gathers several points in science, Victor outruns him in art and philosophy, and Sherlock realises that it has been a long time since he´s had a comparably inspiring conversation. It´s been a long time he has talked so casually about his interests, too, he perceives, when Victor smiles mischievously at him, an eyebrow raised.

"You know, I walk dogs for a living. Well, not quite," he says. "It´s just that London can be rather expensive in places."

"This is hardly an outstanding observation," Sherlock snarls, exhaustion and the dull throbbing in his leg making him irritable.

Victor leans over the table, his elbows nearly brushing against Sherlock´s hand, which has been drawing circles onto the wooden surface. He smiles. "What I meant was that there are a lot of intriguing pastimes one could spend hundreds of pounds upon. I think, as a spoiled child from a wealthy family, you might be familiar with some of them."

Sherlock draws his hand back and sits up, his blue eyes boring into Victor´s brown ones. "Dull. You read the newspapers," he says, his voice dark and threatening. "Is this why you set your dog on me – to get access to the black sheep of the Holmes´ family? It wouldn´t be the first time some delusional human pursued me to declare his everlasting love."

The scathing irony in Sherlock´s voice isn´t lost on Victor, who smiles, imaging a trail of followers chasing Sherlock through London´s streets. He quickly grows serious again, though, and leans back. "Oh, I´d bet, considering your good looks," he replies off-handedly. "I didn´t plan on meeting you, though. Sweetie seemed to have felt a jolt of attraction, I´m afraid – seems to be more the SM type, I reckon." He lays his open hand on the table, as if calling it a truce. "You appeared far more wired and aloof in the report than you are in reality. I doubt I would have ever imagined meeting you in person could be fun."

"This was the reason why my family kept the press at bay. To keep people from speculating about our family traits," Sherlock replies sternly. "Plus, my father has never forgiven my grandfather that his divorce at the age of seventy-eight was displayed in the tabloids."

"A family scandal everyone could identify with," Victor says. "I remember my mother was devastated by the news of how your grandmother had died. Oh, I´m sorry," he continues, noticing Sherlock´s darkening features. "This is hardly an appropriate topic."

Sherlock stays silent, lost in the memory of leaving his grandparent´s estate for the last time after a summer of freedom and adventure in Brittany. He remembers the uproar at Holmes Manor at the news on his grandmother´s accident, and his own grief. His father had changed, then, becoming more detached and bitter with every passing month, and their strained relationship didn´t improve but grew worse ever since.

He looks up, meeting Victor´s eyes. The brown-haired man shrugs. "Every family has its own difficulties, I guess," he says lightly, and for once, it doesn´t sound indifferent but soothing. Sherlock nods, pushing away the sudden wave of fondness for his counterpart. He is suddenly tired, but can´t find the right words to end their conversation.

Again, Victor´s thoughtfulness takes him off guard. "It´s time I leave." He raises from his chair and sends Sherlock a peculiar glance. "Since I´m the one responsible for your ordeal, allow me to invite you for a trip to the countryside tomorrow. We could go to the seaside, cherish the sun outside a pub, you know."

Puzzled, Sherlock stares back at his visitor. This is clearly meant as a date. "I have no inclination..." he starts, but Victor throws his head back and laughs.

"I wouldn´t want to intimidate you, of course. But seeing that you can´t possibly leave the flat on your own, I assumed I could be of assistance. You don´t seem to take confinement very well."

"How would you know?" Sherlock snarls back, again taken by surprise by Victor´s observation.

"Oh, come on, you´ve been tapping your good foot against the table´s leg for the past half hour, and you´ve been fiddling with the remnant of your biscuit ever since we sat down." Victor smiles his mocking smile again. "If I am guessing correctly, you are yearning for distraction. You know, three months in rehab are rather a short time to recover, especially when you didn´t want treatment in the first place. We could end tomorrow on a special note, you know."

Thrilled despite the warning in his mind that he promised himself never to socialise with other users, Sherlock is looking at Victor, biting his lip. He is already far too curious to get to know this man better, and wanting too desperately to recline his offer.

"I hope it´s good stuff, then," he growls, and Victor laughs again.

"Premium," he replies, and grabs his jacket. "You´ll be surprised, Mr. Holmes. Tomorrow at two?"

The younger Holmes nods. The image of the sea rolling in, of Victor´s smooth voice explaining Plato´s theories to him and the wind ruffling their hair creeps into his inner vision.

"Two, yes," he says, roughly. They can´t have been flirting. He has no inclination to get romantically involved, he likes his solitude. No, taking Victor up on his offer is just his usual practice of discovering the unknown. It is his usual way of keeping the tsunami of his thought at bay by solving a puzzle. It is distraction, nothing else. And Victor, astonishingly enough, presents a puzzle.

Later, as he plucks at his violin´s strings, Sherlock remembers his appointment with Lestrade. Well, he can always get sober early enough to be reputable for police work. Ordinary people are so easy fooled, after all.


	4. The Hunter and his Dog

"Do we really need to talk about this here? The man in the morgue had been killed by a stab to the heart, yes. He was connected to a drug trafficking ring Small obviously considers competitors." Sherlock´s resonant voice has climbed up in volume, making his annoyance evident. He regrets having followed Victor to this club. The music and the throng of party folk devoted to drinking and shaking their limbs in rhythm to the white noise and continuous, mind-blowingly simple rhythm of what is called music in these surroundings is already getting on his nerves. When they arrived, Victor had tried to drag Sherlock onto the dance floor, but the younger man has been successfully resisted any attempt at dancing. The next minute, they found themselves on the crowded bar, a beer miraculously appearing in front of the younger Holmes, which he has so far been very good at ignoring. Victor, on the other hand, is already on his second drink, and beaming at his companion.

"You solved the case, then, and contributed to the inspector´s promotion," Victor says and wraps his left arm around Sherlock´s shoulder. "Time for celebration!"

Sherlock sneers and shrugs Victor´s hand off, refusing to react to the toast the brown-haired man offers. "It´s hardly worth throwing a party over the fact that the Yard knows how the man died. It would be worth celebrating if they found the killer."

Victor lays one hand on Sherlock´s bicep, his fingertips burning through the younger man´s leather jacket. "But you are a hero," he insists. "The Yard´s hero, I´d say."

"I´m certainly not." Sherlock frees himself from Victor´s grasp, and takes a step away from his companion. He definitely has had enough. Standing in this confined space, surrounded by strangers and assaulted by too many sounds and erratic lights, he can feel his brain curl up on itself, ready to explode. He knows from previous experiences that he will not be able to stay any longer. Either they do leave this moment, or…

As always over the past fortnight, Victor shows a remarkable sense of perception. "Oh," he remarks. "We´d probably better get you out into the open before you implode." His smile turns into one of mischief. "You don´t seem to be all too keen on celebrating."

Sherlock just shakes his head. He has no intention to stay anyway. To follow Victor to this place in the hope of being able to spot Small has been a stupid idea. Not only might he never be able to discern the man among the Friday evening crowd, he won´t be able to find out anything about him anyway. Sherlock can feel Victor´s expectant gaze, and to save himself the argument of why he doesn´t drink, he downs half his beer and turns to leave. And to look into the very intensive blue eyes of a sturdy, bald man, who takes a step nearer to advance on Victor.

"Hey, Vic. It´s been too long, don´t you think? Why don´t you and your friend follow me for a quiet word about your debt?"

Puzzled, Sherlock shoots Victor a questioning look, but his friend remains unfazed by the odd request. "I´m sorry, but I don´t think we know each other," he replies friendly.

The stranger pushes an impressively huge and strong hand past Sherlock´s torso, hitting Victor´s left clavicle lightly. "But surely you remember our insignificant… difference," he replies, his smile suddenly vanishing.

Although the stranger´s touch must have hurt, Victor remains calm. "I don´t. As I don´t remember you. So please leave the fuck off." He delivers the last part of the sentence with the tiniest hint of a threat, but the burly man only draws nearer, one of his paws now resting on Sherlock´s shoulder.

"Do you really assume this is the right way to treat an old friend?" the bald man says. "Do you think your boyfriend here will approve?"

Victor´s reaction comes fast, his hand clamping down on the stranger´s wrist. "Don´t touch him," he snarls. "Leave us. I don´t have business with you."

Sherlock frowns at the last words. They are too accentuated, and from Victor´s posture and the ferocious gleam in his eyes he can read there must be something more. Either the two men have met before, or Victor at least knows his opponent better than he is ready to admit. Sherlock shifts his weight to his good leg, ready to strike, when the intruder suddenly pushes him back towards the bar, lunging out to punch Victor. Sherlock needs only a second to steady himself, before he pushes off from the solid wood and throws his whole weight against their attacker. Taken by surprise, the stranger goes to the ground immediately, but still manages to lash out and hit Sherlock in the kidneys. But the younger Holmes hasn´t studied martial arts for nothing, so he grabs his attacker´s arm and slams him down again, hard.

He peeks up at Victor, and his eyes widen in shock, for a second brute has appeared behind his friend, ready to lock him into a chokehold. Victor, who has perceived Sherlock´s horrified expression, turns like lightning to slam both fists into the brute´s guts. The man on the ground stirs, grappling with one hand at one of the nearby bar chairs, but is still too stunned to get up.

In the meantime, the bartender has called his reinforcements in, two huge and well-trained bodyguards who enter the scene like raging bulls. Sherlock feels Victor´s grip on his sleeve, pulling him away from the bar and into the dancing crowd, and soon they have vanished into the mass of sweating human bodies.

They flee through one of the side doors, into a gloomy alleyway paved with bricks and start running. Several blocks and small passes later, Victor finally stops, his hands on his knees, panting. Sherlock throws his back against a wall for support and takes deep, desperate breaths. His heart is beating frantically, much too fast for his liking. His ankle is throbbing from the recent abuse, too, and he silently curses the vicious Corgi. At least, they haven´t been followed, neither by the mysterious stranger, nor by the club´s bodyguards.

He looks at Victor, who smiles back. "So who was that friend of yours," he manages to gasp between deep breaths.

Victor, who has straightened up again, swallows heavily, his chest not heaving as much as Sherlock´s by far. He shrugs. "No idea. Someone who mistook me for someone else, I guess."

Sherlock frowns. The stranger hadn´t hesitated to approach Victor, and had mentioned a debt. He couldn´t have misinterpreted the glint of recognition in his eyes and the twitch of Victor´s eyebrows. So why does Victor lie? Sherlock is about to ask his friend, when the brown-haired man places a hand on his forearm.

"Perhaps he has seen me once," he soothes. "I´ve frequented this club quite a bit last year. Someone once told me that I resemble someone who is seen there often, too. The guy must have confused me with him."

Victor´s fingers come up to Sherlock´s chin, where the stranger has left a cut with his rather heavy ring when Sherlock tackled him. He cocks his head, taking in Sherlock´s strained stance, the way he tries to take weight off his still hurting ankle.

"Are you all right?" he asks softly, and Sherlock nods. Victor´s face is very close now, the fingers of his left hand gently lingering on the younger man´s neck, caressing a spot near his carotid.

"Hmmm, still adrenaline fuelling your system," Victor hums. "Thank you for saving me. You might not be the Yard´s hero, but you are mine." His voice is down to a whisper now, and Sherlock shivers slightly. He knows he should be far more vigilant; he shouldn´t allow his friend to close in on him like that without having answered several important questions. But he can´t seem to summon any of them as Victor´s lips finally touch his. When the feather-light touch evolves into demand and an animalistic need, he finds that all he can do is respond.

Seconds later, they part, staring at each other. His analysing self still eluding him, Sherlock finds himself lost for words. "So where did you learn to fight, posh boy?" Victor´s words startle him, for they are delivered off-handedly, as if what just happened had only been an illusion. But Victor, sensing Sherlock´s immediate reluctance, just laughs, and hands him a cigarette package and a lighter. "Come on, I´m curious," he says, lighting his own fag, already walking away. "You tell me, and we´ll find a nicer place to get comfortable." He winks, and Sherlock snaps out of his stupor and follows in long strides.

* * *

Hours later, they are on a roof near the Thames. The majestic river stretches out beneath them, glimmering in the light of street lamps, stretching into a patch of black nothingness in the distance. This is where Victor kisses Sherlock a second time, before they both get high again and lean back onto the concrete, counting the stars surrounding Orion and his dog. This is where Sherlock finally throws all caution to the wind and decides to trust his companion. And this is where he tells him how Mycroft insisted that he takes martial arts training, and how much he loathes his brother for his air of condescension and permanent meddling.

Sherlock bathes in the presence of his friend, in his laughter and attention, and he wonders at how small a step it was to drift into what is developing suspiciously fast into something which resembles a relationship. He would never have risked hoping he would find someone who could understand his complex mind. Victor seems to genuinely like him, and he is good company. And Sherlock realises that as long as the drug of his choice brings out a more likeable version of himself, he will be safe from the hazards of former years, when he managed only too frequently to make people shy away from him.

He closes his eyes, disregarding the cold, damp air, listening to the night whispers of the city he loves. If he can change, so can his life. He is sure of that. It would be only just, after all.


	5. Revelations

A pale sun smiles down on a row of terraced houses. In this east London neighbourhood, only a handful of the backyards can be considered appealing. Most of them consist of a dreary strip of dry weed, awkwardly decorated by withered bushes, rubbish bins and abandoned tools.

The backyard Greg Lestrade is looking at is adorned by another, quite foreign, object. Its presence has startled the house´s owner into dropping his mug of coffee when he glanced through his back door to check on the weather early this morning. He is still deep in shock, bereft of his ability to form coherent sentences, presently in the care of paramedics in his upstairs bedroom. Although the sight of the fair-haired, underweight and naked youth wrapped in a grey, bloodstained blanket is gruesome enough, Greg is experienced enough to stifle his compassion and remain neutral to solely consider the facts.

Forensics is swarming the small, enclosed rectangle, taking pictures picking up samples of earth, fabric and whatever might provide them with clues on the youth´s violent death. There is not enough space left for two grown men to join the team, so Greg leans in the kitchen door next to DI Lampard from Homicides. He has known the elder man, twenty years his senior, for a long time, and one look is enough for him to see that Lampard is less than pleased with their find.

"Looks as if whoever killed him didn´t do it here," Lampard says, and Greg nods.

"Whoever has dumped him here must have had a reason to expose him to the adjoining window," he replies. "It is far too risky to leave a corpse in a residential area, where there are potential onlookers." He pauses. "Odd, though, that someone would kill a druggie and put his corpse on display."

"You still think this was meant as a warning?" Lampard asks, stroking his chin. Greg hums in acknowledgment.

"Yes. As much as you assume this death is connected to Smith´s latest activities."

Lampard turns to regard him, frowning. "I think it´s highly likely, yes," he says. "But we need to find out first why he was killed and why he was left here. I have it in my guts we might be running out of time."

"And we will find the next victim of Small´s struggle for predominance soon," Greg concludes, gravely.

Lampard nods and lights his pipe. "This wunderkind of yours, what was his name again? You´re sure he can make more sense of this than our experts?" He gestures towards the lawn and its prone occupant.

Greg draws his arms more tightly around his middle, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. His leather jacket doesn´t really shield him from the harsh wind. Even at the end of February it is still cold and wet. Winter has seen more rain than snow so far, and Greg is looking forward to his holiday. If this murder is connected to the current war for dominance among London´s drug lords, he will be forced to cancel his trip to Madeira. He rids himself of the tempting impulse to tell Lampard that Sherlock Holmes is neither trained for police work nor a very accommodating person. Arresting Small might get Greg the promotion to Homicides he´s been waiting for, after all. It´s only reasonable to use all the help he can get to succeed.

"His name is Holmes," Greg replies. "I can call him in to the crime scene. He told us a lot about Small´s latest victim only from looking at a photograph and a short examination of the corpse."

Lampard nods approvingly. "Told you the man´s profession and where he had been before he was abducted and tortured, I heard," he says. "I also heard he´s a cokehead. I don´t think our superiors would approve if we used an unreliable source of information, don´t you agree?"

Greg kicks a small stone from the edge of the stair he´s standing on, sending it flying towards one of the rubbish bins where it vanishes in the shadows under the steel container. He´s surprised and slightly amused by his annoyance at Lampard´s remark. He seems to have acquired more faith in Sherlock´s talents than he has allowed himself to acknowledge.

"He´s clean. And he´s actually more observant and able to draw the correct conclusions than most of my officers are," he replies, straightening up.

Lampard regards Greg´s serious expression, and smiles, amused. "You´re trying to tell me we need his help? Why do I have the impression that you do want to help him?"

Greg sends a lopsided smile back. "Because I do," he says, and feels Lampard´s massive hand on his shoulder.

"Call him, then," the elder officer offers. "I´d love to watch him examining these bloodstains and hear him tell us this poor guy´s life story from their pattern."

Greg grins and fishes for his mobile. "I don´t believe he´s that good yet, actually. But he might get there someday, with more practice."

"Well, let´s give him some incentive to get on with his life, then," Lampard replies drily.

* * *

"Still bored, posh boy? Looking forward to cheering you up."

Sherlock smiles at Victor´s latest text message, immediately scolding himself for displaying sentiment toward a dead object and words which are delivered electronically. But for a split second, the two phrases have transported him back to his flat and Victor´s unexpected visit of three days ago. Sherlock, more annoyed than delighted about the intrusion, had reacted outright vitriolic in his attempt to remove his friend from the flat. He remembers claiming that he couldn´t comprehend how he was ever supposed to survive in a world animated with idiots and fuelled by tedium. Victor had lashed back by calling Sherlock a psychopath, unable to comprehend the simplest human motivations, and finally attacked him physically, smirking and claiming he needed to "teach him a lesson".

The attack had been swift enough to take Sherlock by surprise, and he had ended up pinned to the floor, his wrists locked in Victor´s iron grasp, helplessly exposed to eager lips exploring his neck and mouth. It had taken him all his willpower to untangle his unresponsive limbs from Victor´s muscled, accommodating arms and legs, and he remained anxious and rude for the following half hour. When Victor finally gave up on cheering him up and left after telling him that he would be leaving London for a few days, Sherlock only snorted, pretending not to care.

The following morning, he received the first text message and found himself texting back eagerly and swiftly, smiling madly. He chided himself for his pathetic reaction, but remained unsuccessful in trying to ignore the feeling of hollowness which bloomed in his chest.

Labouring along at work did nothing to rid him of his nagging fear of being abandoned, but getting high did. In the three days since Victor´s departure, he broke his promise to himself to not use during daytime, successfully drowning out his longing for his friend´s presence. Obviously, Victor has become an influence on his actions, he muses as he shuts down his mobile. Considering the number of texts he´s received since Victor´s departure, Sherlock obviously has one, too.

He smiles and returns to proofreading his latest report. There is something amiss with the substance he has been assigned to analyse. The formula of the supposedly mild stimulant used by foreign military forces in combat signifies that it has been altered to act as a hallucinogenic, too. Should Wainwright decide to reassign him to a new task, he will never be able to find out how and why the formula has been tampered with. Most probably, he will be set up to his next, far more tedious, assignment.

He is startled out of his musings by a tickle in his nostril. Before he can even think of raising a hand to his face, the first drop of red splatters the document. He stares at it, dumbfounded, cursing while he fumbles for a handkerchief. He curses again as his mobile starts vibrating in his jacket´s pocket, and grabs the device with his left hand, pressing the piece of cloth against his bleeding nose with his right.

Greeting his caller with a muffled voice, he is both thrilled to be called in to a crime scene by Lestrade and exasperated by the Yarder´s question whether he is coming down with a cold. He assures the DI that he´ll be on his way immediately, tells him to text him in future, and cuts the call.

Leaving his dreary office to investigate on a murder scene seems a far better alternative than staying in this hellhole of a workplace, completing his report for Wainwright. If he called in ill, this could get him even one more day off. His heart starts to beat faster as he realises he could meet Victor at the airport. He composes a swift email for Connor, telling him he has left to sleep off a nasty bug, grabs his coat and flees.

When the heavy front door of the historic building closes behind him, he breathes more easily than minutes ago. He dumps the stained pages in a dustbin next to a nearby bus stop. All that counts now is the case at hand. There is plenty of time left to deal with his new problem later.

* * *

Victor fingers the cigarette package and lighter in his pocket, and sips at his espresso. Sherlock had been genuinely surprised when Victor told him he had taken an earlier flight and would be expecting him in this Notting Hill café. The fact that Sherlock had seemed less than pleased with this arrangement is still nagging at him. He fears that the younger man might see through his façade, which would be more than just inconvenient after the effort he´s taken to get closer to the younger Holmes.

Victor toys with the spoon, absent-mindedly swirling the dark liquid, and wonders not for the first time how much his first impression of Sherlock has changed in the past weeks. He fails to comprehend how he could have thought of him as an arrogant sod. Well, he surely appears to be one most of the time, but it has taken Victor not very long to discover the sensitive, vulnerable person behind the mask of self-consciousness and contempt for the world in general. Victor has surprised himself by being impressed with Sherlock´s brilliance and intensity.

He feels trapped, actually. What he has started has grown into something bigger, something he is afraid of losing control of. He actually enjoys showing Sherlock the remotest area of the city, roaming London´s streets by night together, listening to his deductions.

Sherlock is an enigma, and Victor has always been drawn towards enigmatic people. This is why he has chosen his line of work. He would never have taken in account that he should find his match in curiosity towards the world in a man with indecipherable blue eyes.

As he gazes out of the window and sees a dark-haired lanky figure approach in long, elegant strides, he catches himself longing to touch Sherlock´s sharp cheekbones, to feel his beating heart beneath his jutting ribs.

He smiles in anticipation. Soon, very soon. They will have fun first. He hasn´t been named "the winner" for nothing.


	6. Not a Big Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably add that this is where is gets - evil. In a pleasant-looking but very unpleasant way. So, please be warned...
> 
> Lol,  
> eohippus

Sherlock and Victor leave the café – the place of their reunion, Sherlock can´t stop rejoicing, despite cringing inwardly from the implied sentiment – and walk south, side by side, Victor´s hand occasionally brushing Sherlock´s, sending shivers down his spine.

Sherlock hasn´t spoken much except for asking Victor whether he had a safe journey and the wedding he had attended had been as dull as was to be expected. He is too occupied with assumptions and deductions concerning the murder. The size and pattern of the victim´s injuries had matched the single, fatal wound of the first one. Traces of mud under the young man´s fingernails had indicated that he had also spent the evening preceding his death near the Thames. The most disturbing fact is that Sherlock knew the youth. He had bought from him recently, a nervous, stuttering wreck, startling at every sound and scuttling away hurriedly after he received his money. But as Sherlock couldn´t afford to reveal his observations to Lestrade, he limited his account to the fact that the young man´s face was well known in certain parts of night-time London.

The officer´s faith in his abilities had surprised and flattered him. Lestrade had seemed outright fascinated with Sherlock´s findings, and Sherlock found that he was actually pleased to be taken seriously for a change. All his plans to delve deeper into forensics or biochemistry had been dismissed, if not thwarted, by his father, who had wanted him to step into his ancestor´s footsteps and devote himself to state and government. But while Mycroft has a talent to deal even with the most difficult characters in a detached and diplomatic way, Sherlock is far too quick-witted and blunt to adapt to a tight frame of obligation. Working free-lance would be far better suited to him than his current job. Perhaps he could offer his advice to the Yard someday?

He smiles to himself at this ridiculous idea, and immediately feels Victor nudging him in the ribs. "Thinking of something pleasant?" his friend demands to know, but Sherlock´s smile has gone as fast as it appeared, and he shakes his head. "I know something I could remind you of," Victor offers mischievously, for once not realising that Sherlock is not in the mood for a tease. The youngest Holmes walks faster, not replying to Victor´s remark, and the brown-haired man follows him all the way towards Regent´s Park in silence.

They enter the park, early spring sunlight warming their faces, and finally stop at the lake. Victor muses what his next step can be. He is completely taken by surprise when Sherlock grabs him by the arms and plants a greedy, sloppy and very much demanding kiss on his mouth. Before Victor can stop him, Sherlock storms away. He stops at the water´s edge, staring ahead, chin hidden in his scarf, his hands buried in the pockets of his leather jacket. When Victor catches up with him, he turns, a storm brewing in his sky blue eyes. "Don´t do this again," he warns, his voice cracking with fury. "Don´t just leave like that ever again."

"A tiny bit possessive, are we?" Victor asks with a smile, squeezing Sherlock´s arm lightly. But the younger man yanks it from his grasp and storms away again, his hair ruffled by a sudden breeze.

Victor watches him walk away in long, elegant strides, his straight back, and can´t help but be reminded of an untamed, volatile creature striding through its habitat. The woman with a pram passing them, the man with his dog, and the two students on bicycles appear utterly domesticated compared to Sherlock´s imperious demeanour. For all his education and civilised manner, there is something outright dangerous in the man. He must not make the mistake of underestimating him, Victor reminds himself.

They finally reach a row of benches, and Sherlock stops to sit down, retrieving a brown bag from his pockets and throwing bits of a leftover croissant from the café towards a crow. The bird eyes him with interest, wary of his movements, and hops nearer to scrutinise the pastry with intelligent eyes.

"I take it," Victor quips, sitting down. "You refrain from eating breakfast to feed London´s corvids."

Sherlock looks at him, frowning. "At least I will make someone happy," he replies, his voice husky, but firm. "I definitely haven´t succeeded with my family or superiors so far."

Victors leans nearer and pushes a stray lock away out of Sherlock´s eyes. "You can make happy whomever you choose to," he says firmly. "You are stronger than you think you are, my raven prince." Victor lets his fingers glide over Sherlock´s cheek, down towards his neck where he can read his friend´s tension from the strain in his tendons.

Sherlock shifts his gaze from the bird to an unfocussed spot. Victor´s hand on his neck is warm and soothing, but he wills himself to ignore the sensation. Some part of him still isn´t willing to relent to his desires. He fleetingly wishes he could fly, simply spread his wings and leave. Soaring up into the sky to leave earth´s dire concerns behind must be the ultimate freedom. Floating through a realm of currents and clouds, detached and euphoric, there would be no more questioning his burning longing for Victor, which he has felt ever since their fervent kisses on the roof. There would be no questioning the sincerity of the blonde man´s smile, of his advances.

"Stop analysing and be happy," a familiar voice whispers inside him. He has ignored his grandmother´s friendly reprimand for far too long. It is high time he followed the heart she has never ceased to point out he possessed. Without even realising it, he raises his left hand and traces Victor´s jawline, stopping at the dimple at the corner of the other man´s mouth. _I want to make you happy_ , he thinks. "I could get lost in you," he says instead, his voice hoarse with desire.

Victor´s fingers wrap around his wrist, the index finger resting on his pulse. "I know," he purrs. "Let´s get back, shall we?"

Sherlock smiles, his answer ready, when his nose starts to tickle again. He fumbles for a handkerchief, eyeing Victor who appears to be transfixed by a tiny drop of blood on his hand.

"Sorry, I… I need to fix that. It´s really getting annoying," Sherlock mutters through the piece of cloth, inwardly cursing his bad luck.

It takes Victor several seconds to answer. The red stain on his hand has transported him back to a rather unpleasant occurrence several months ago. Surprisingly, the fact that it is Sherlock´s blood which is staining his hands is unsettling him. But he can´t afford to get sentimental over such an insignificant incident when he doesn´t yet know what might be required from him in the future.

He draws a deep breath, steadying himself and getting back to the present. "I can help you," he offers, and Sherlock nods.

"It´s the most reasonable course," the youngest Holmes replies, his eyes boring into Victor´s, his gaze a mix of misery and anticipation.

 _Are you really fooling yourself into thinking you´re following logic?_ Victor is half tempted to ask, but he smiles instead. "Come on," he beckons, getting up and offering his hand. "Let´s go."

* * *

_Someone is calling his name, demanding him that he listen. He is running through a dark corridor, doors showing him their uninviting, closed faces. The baritone voice is following him, resonating through the wooden boards touched by his bare feet, ringing in his ears. It keeps telling him that he hasn´t kept his promise. He is a disgrace, his punishment already agreed upon, waiting to be executed._

_His headache intensifies with every syllable, every accusation and announcement. He frantically tries to leave the admonishments behind, but his breath catches in his throat, he stumbles and finally trips. The ground beneath his feet opens up into an ugly throat, and the momentum of his flight propels him into the opening, falling helplessly into a pitch-black void, the speed of the fall knocking the wind out of him. He cries out in desperation, and the voice suddenly stops. Somehow, the sudden silence is far worse than all the vicious, hurting words before have ever been._

Sherlock jolts awake, his arms lunging out as if to catch a railing, a rope, anything, his eyes opening to the first rays of the February sun falling on a nightstand. He feels dizzy and disoriented, his head thrumming with the first signs of a massive headache. He stills and tries to make sense of several other unfamiliar sensations: the warmth of a duvet on his bare skin, the pleasant heaviness of his limbs, his raw lips and the warm breath of another human ghosting over his shoulder.

Relaxing slightly, he focusses on the objects on the table. A razor. A small polystyrene bag. Shreds of the late afternoon return to him, and he groans and turns to take in the sight of the man sleeping peacefully beside him.

Victor stirs and opens his eyes, as if sensing Sherlock´s persistent gaze and his intense thinking. His smile is genuine as he raises one hand to touch Sherlock´s cheek.

"Hi", he whispers, his voice still tinged with sleep. "You´re okay?"

Sherlock flinches away from his touch. "Fine", he says and points at the remnants of the drug. "Terrific, actually. What did you mix with it to take advantage of me?" he snarls, his voice dangerously low.

Victor simply smiles and pushes himself upright. He reaches for his cigarettes and lighter, his eyes shining with amusement as the tiny flame sparkles into life. "If I remember correctly, you were positively thrilled to try a better quality," he says, smirking mischievously. "Sadly enough, you didn´t permit me to take advantage of you." He lays a suggestive hand on Sherlock´s hip. "I´d be thrilled to, though."

Sherlock´s first impulse is to shake Victor off. But something inside him softens from his friend´s tone. He searches the other man´s expression for signs of mockery, but all he finds is slight amusement and serious interest.

Detached from himself, the fading sensation of his last line tingling in his limbs, he feels Victor´s fingertips trailing down towards his knee. They seem to burn into Sherlock´s calf, and he closes his eyes to lose himself in the sensation. When Victor bends over to kiss him, he responds eagerly to his friend´s – or is it lover´s? – careful exploration of his lips and mouth.

Victor pulls back after what seems a lifetime, pushing one hand into Sherlock´s curls. "Tell me what you want," he says quietly.

Sherlock doesn´t answer immediately. Once more, he can´t fathom why he is so fascinated with this man. For all his sensitivity, Victor can be rude, persuasive, and manipulative – qualities Sherlock would usually give wide berth in a friend, let alone a lover. It must be the enigma Victor presents which draws Sherlock to him irresistibly. To unravel this mystery, he needs all the data he can get. He needs more than kisses and caressing touches.

Sherlock senses Victor waiting for a response, patiently expecting his answer to an unspoken question. He turns to regard the elder man, sternly. "Show me," he breathes, and Victor stares back at him, frowning.

"Are you sure, beautiful?" he asks softly, and Sherlock nods.

"I want… I need to drown out my thoughts first… It´s…" He swallows, suddenly lost for words, and closes his eyes. Why is it so hard to explain what he needs when Victor seems to know it anyway?

"Shhh…" Victor´s fingers card through Sherlock´s hair, and the younger man feels his shoulders relax. "It´s not a big deal," Victor soothes. "Sit back. I´ll be only a minute."

Sherlock leans back, his eyes still closed. Although he feels a pang of remorse that his last step might take him even farther away from what he really wants, he isn´t willing to relent. He has come to like his warped personality too much to give in to reason.

He snaps out of his musings when Victor returns and kneels down at his side. Warm fingers stroke his arm soothingly as he tenses involuntarily under their touch, and the cold grip of the leather tourniquet is softened by Victor´s lush lips on Sherlock´s shoulder.

"Do you want me to stop?" Victor murmurs, and Sherlock bites his lip and shakes his head, his heart speeding up in anticipation. The spark of reason in his mind is drowned out by a sudden sensation of raw want.

A tiny prick. Calm before the storm. The whinging doubt in his mind. And then it hits him like a blow to the sternum, his heart hammering, his breath hitching. His thoughts assemble and tumble together like tiny ice crystals. They have never been so clear, so organised. Everything makes sense, even Victor´s hands on his back, on his buttocks, between his legs. He growls, using all his strength to push his friend over, biting at his neck. He´s been transformed into a wild creature, feral and bold, and it feels fantastic.

He doesn´t know yet that Victor´s triumphant smile will be engraved into his memory for years to come.

* * *

Hours later, Sherlock stirs in his sleep, his hand connecting with solid flesh and bone. He wakes, his heart pounding, the soft thuds reverberating in his eardrums. He is far too warm. The world outside sends its own messages into the unheated room: a car honking, a dog barking, pedestrian´s steps. The scent of cigarettes and their take-away dinner floats in the air, and Sherlock remembers, sorting and cataloguing the sensations of the previous evening. The sting of the needle, Victor´s caresses. His own startled gasp when the high hit, and the feeling of clarity and invincibility. Distinguishable patterns where he normally would only see chaos. Self-assurance replacing fear. The two of them grasping each other, entwined, breathing into each other´s mouths, synchronising their bodies to the eternal rhythm of lust and desire. Sleep, claiming him like the summoner of death.

Sherlock´s finger ghost over Victor´s shoulder, before he gets up, his hand gripping the edge of the bed, his feet unsteady. He walks into the kitchen. With shaking hands, he pours himself a glass of water. Perched against the kitchen table, he regards the windows of the adjoining buildings, still dark this early in the morning, before his gaze settles on a crow in the tree outside which appears to regard him with watchful eyes.

He turns and slips into the sheets again where he watches Victor´s peaceful features in silence. "La petite mort," he whispers, trailing his lover´s jawline with his forefinger, feeling the stubble there, and startles when Victor´s eyes snap open.

"Are you talking about sleep or orgasm?" Victor asks with a smirk, grasping Sherlock´s fingers and kissing their tips.

Sherlock is lost for an answer. He had crossed more than one boundary yesterday. He smiles back as Victor pushes one hand against his ribcage where his heart is still making an effort to calm down.

"No longer too fast – but I can feel your thoughts racing," Victor says.

Sherlock shakes his head. "They´re stalled," he replies. "Otherwise I´d never…"

Victor seals Sherlock´s lips with his fingers. "I know. It´s good. You are."

Sherlock winces and pushes his lover´s hand away. "I´m not. I´m a selfish prick becoming an addict."

Victor´s smile deepens. "Sure you are," he says. "That´s why I don´t intend to leave anytime soon."


	7. Ready to Soar

Back at the office on Monday, one day and only a few hours of sleep after his first night with Victor, Sherlock is exhausted and nervous, unable to concentrate on his tasks. Whenever he tries to immerse himself in his work, memories of their lovemaking overriding reason. As much as he always distanced himself from getting emotionally involved with someone, he now longs for Victor´s presence, his laughter, his touch. He shakes his head in an attempt to clear his mind, chiding himself for his sentiment. His anxiety, resulting from two days of heavy indulging, doesn´t help in his attempt to regain his balance.

He fidgets on his seat, running a hand through his curls and smiling wryly. Probably he wouldn´t have lost his equilibrium so easily had the two of them taken things slower, less intense. But in contrast to Mycroft, Sherlock hasn´t made a habit of resorting to reason because of his obligations. In Victor´s case, he has even pushed himself willingly past the point where reason shouted at him to stop. He wanted the exception, the extraordinary, an existence beyond the beaten track of tedium. Every single minute of the past weekend has been a revelation on what his life could be. He has successfully extended his boundaries, explored previously unchartered territory. The weekend with Victor has contributed to cementing his belief that the routine of composing reports on experiments he hasn´t conducted himself can never be a vital part of his life. Being buried alive in this bland room, surrounded by computer equipment, chemistry textbooks and numerous Styrofoam cups tainted by the remains of stale coffee is only part of his punishment. His first attempt at flying had been prevented by his arrest. He was rudely yanked back into the golden cage of convention. With Victor, he can finally soar, and no one will ever again succeed in clipping his wings.

If he is careful not to arouse suspicion, that is. As long as his father thinks he is fulfilling his duties, he will be able to stray from his obligations and hopefully get one foot into police work. It´s annoying that he still hasn´t figured out how to notify Lestrade of the murdered youth´s possible involvement with Small´s business without directing the DI´s suspicion towards Sherlock´s non-existent status of sobriety. He sinks back in his chair, frowning. Investigating on his own would certainly be far safer than talking to the DI and risking what little freedom he enjoys after his forced stint in rehab.

The text alert notification is pulling him out of his thoughts. He frantically fumbles for his mobile, his lips curving into an expectant smile which falters when he watches Lestrade´s name light up on the display. The DI notifies him that he was right in assuming their latest victim had been killed by a left-hander and with a similar weapon as the first. And he asks him to take a look at the formula of an unknown substance found on the blanket the young man was wrapped in.

Frowning, Sherlock pulls his latest report nearer to reread the crucial bits about the tampered formula of the stimulant. He catches his breath as he finds his suspicion confirmed. An eerie similarity exists between both formulas. Either someone outside the walls of this secret governmental institution has created the a similar drug or he knows about the stimulant and is using it for his own purposes. Sherlock´s heart is hammering in his chest as he realises the implications of his findings. It seems improbable enough that a secret substance has found its way into London´s drug scene, but then again he simply needs to eliminate the impossible to find the truth.

He is deeply immersed in exploiting his mind palace for further references when Connor interrupts him.

"Hey. How are you?" the Irishman asks, casually leaning in the doorway.

Sherlock snaps out of his thoughts and stares uncomprehendingly at his colleague. He is certain that the similarity between the two formulas cannot be coincidental. But he needs proof, he needs access to lab equipment and the substance itself to test his theory.

Connor grins at Sherlock´s vacant expression. "She´s really something, hum?" Noticing Sherlock´s eyes narrowing, he shrugs. "Oh, come on. You´ve been mooning over her all morning. You never talk very much, but today you´re completely spaced out. Sure sign of love-sickness, if you ask me."

The man´s condescending grin is infuriating. He´s not completely wrong in his observations, though. Sherlock, fearing that his agitation and pallid complexion might raise questions, has hardly exchanged a word with his colleagues all morning, resorting to short, dull remarks about the weather. But Connor doesn´t share Sherlock´s talent to read the signals which can tell someone´s life story. Sherlock, who has had enough of Connor´s banter and his allusions to his love live, suddenly vibrates with the desire to teach him a lesson.

"Are you jealous because your fiancée moved out a week ago? Because you´d prefer me to join in your wailing about lost opportunities and the malice of women, the unfairness of losing your car and several pieces of expensive furniture?" he asks. "Do you really think it reasonable to mourn the loss of a woman who craved your money more than your attention and who dumped you when she became aware that you are far from the next step in your professional career?"

Connor blanches, his gaze hardening. "So it is true," he replies. "You really do get off on spying on your fellow humans and humiliating them."

"I´m not spying." Sherlock nearly spits out the last word, his voice shaking with contempt. "I´m deducing. The white strip on your left ring finger, your untidy hair and your stained shirt should be evidence enough for any idiot."

"What´s the difference anyway?" Connor asks. "Whatever it is you are doing, I certainly didn´t ask for it. And it surely doesn´t contribute to your popularity to blurt out private information."

Sherlock feels the heat rise in his cheeks. He doesn´t need Connor to remind him that his sharp, ever-deducing mind has been cutting him off from most of his attempts at normal relationships, from an average life. The frustration he feels welling up is an old acquaintance, fuelled by the tedium of the past weeks. It ignites into bright, red fury which has less to do with his unfortunate counterpart, but all with his unsatisfying work life. He gratefully takes the opportunity to lash out against an opponent made of flesh and blood, a foe he can hurt.

"This is hardly your concern," he hisses venomously. He raises a hand, ready to strike, but stops dead when his rolled-up sleeve slips up a notch, and his gaze falls on a particular black bruise on his forearm. He swears under his breath when he notices Connors gaze following his, and the other man´s open stare at the spot.

"Right," the redhead says, smirking. "No use getting upset about your sexual preferences. I bet this deducing thing is quite useful for figuring out your lover´s kinks."

Sherlock stares back, his arms sunken down to his sides again, one hand tugging at his sleeve. His mind is suddenly in overdrive, all his impulses telling him to flee, while the term "freak" rewinds in his head. He doesn´t dare to move, though, not as long as Connor is still in the doorway, watching him with a mixture of pity and glee. When the Irishman turns, the spell is broken, and Sherlock heaves a heavy breath and grabs his jacket.

Connor, who has started to walk away, turns. "Oh, I forgot," he says. "The Old Man wants to see you. Seems to be important; he told me to tell you immediately."

Sherlock listens to Connor´s retreating steps, inwardly cursing his lack of caution. Weeks of successfully misleading his coworkers might have been blown apart by his carelessness. He pushes a hand through his hair in an attempt to calm himself. He dimly remembers having asked Wainwright for a meeting a week ago. His request feels eons away after all what has transpired in the past three days, but the reason for it has become even more valid with his findings about the mysterious substance.

The printer releases the last page of his report, and Sherlock grabs them and rushes from his office, suddenly feeling energetic despite his lingering headache.

* * *

When he enters Wainwright´s office, his superior looks up from a dossier, gesturing for him to sit.

"You wanted to see me, Sir," Sherlock states. "In fact, I requested to see you a week ago."

The older man, who has resorted to his reading, waves a dismissive hand towards his charge, not looking up. "Patience, boy," he says. "Let me finish this paragraph and we´ll discuss the issues at hand."

Sherlock for once does know better than to object and stays silent, watching Wainwright closely. The older man´s ruffled hair and the fact that his glasses have slid down to the top of his nose suggest that he has been on the dossier for a while. His shoes are covered by a thin layer of mud from road works, and a small brown bag has been tossed into his dustbin. He hasn´t been in the office for long, then, and he´s had an important, but tedious, call, Sherlock deduces from a piece of paper with a name and several sketches of birds scribbled on it. Wainwright, the bird watcher. An intelligent man, but also one of obvious, boring habits. Sherlock smiles as he remembers his father´s scathing remark that he hadn´t invited Andrew to Holmes Manor to listen to his tales about birds all evening. It had been one of the few incidents when his father´s otherwise immaculate demeanour towards a gust had cracked. Both he and Mycroft had been gleefully watching Wainwright´s shocked expression and his confusion at his host´s anger.

Andrew, who reads Sherlock´s smile as a greeting straightens, smiles back and drops the dossier on the table. He leans nearer, his elbows on the table, his fingers clasped under his chin.

"Well," he says. "There are actually several issues we need to discuss."

"About allowing me access to the laboratory…" Sherlock interrupts, but Andrew tuts and stops him with a raised hand.

"This is not debatable. I promised your father that you will not be allowed to conduct experiments."

Sherlock snorts. "He seems to assume that all chemicals are addictive substances," he starts. "He seems to forget that I´ve trained to…"

"He told me he is convinced that your studies made you more confident to experiment with drugs," Wainwright answers. Noticing Sherlock´s scowl, he continues, appeasing. "He wants to keep you safe, Sherlock. He wouldn´t agree to anything which might endanger your progress."

"But I could be far more useful in research. The paper work I am condemned to can be handled by anyone," Sherlock protests, clasping the pages of the report so tightly they crease.

Wainwright leans back, shaking his head in regret. "As I told you, it´s not debatable, Sherlock." He clasps his hands again. "Your attitude is, though."

Sherlock feels his head pounding. He hardly listens to Andrew´s monologue about his recent behaviour towards his coworkers and his attitude towards working conditions. He had imagined he would argue with Wainwright, get a chance to convince him why he needed access to the research facilities, but his superior´s mentioning of his father has stopped him in his tracks. Edward Holmes is an opponent nearly impossible to beat. His energy is better spent on conceiving an alternative means of access to the labs.

Absent-mindedly, he massages his right temple. He wishes he knew more about Small´s plans. He wishes he could already leave, to start investigating on his own.


	8. Diverse Assignments

Victor stubs out his cigarette, his fingers shaking slightly. The meagre intake of nicotine hasn´t helped him to eliminate the image of Sherlock, sleeping peacefully, his eyes hidden beneath a stray lock of dark curls. He desperately needs to get rid of any spark of attachment to the younger man, but recalling every single instance when Sherlock reacted vitriolic and scathing to Victor´s advances does nothing to help Victor erase the memory of Sherlock´s beauty and vulnerability.  
  
The man who leans casually in the armchair opposite him looks up from his notebook, closes it and lets it drop into a large, brown bag. His gaze settled on Victor. He straightens and grins, before he takes a large swig of his beer. "Good job. I didn´t expect you to be getting that …close to him." The man leans nearer, a sardonic smile on his face. "It´s certainly much better for our plans to keep him occupied. He seems to be quite observant." Another, conspiratorial, smile. "I am sure you trained him very hard to forget. But you know what they say – all is fair in love and war."  
  
Victor shudders inwardly with contempt for this misplaced use of this particular quote, and fumbles his next cigarette from its package. "He didn´t need much training. He just needed the charlie," he says.  
  
Victor´s counterpart chuckles wickedly, and Victor feels his patience with this particular self-satisfied individual waning. The man deserves a solid punch.  
  
Right now, he´s practically begging for one without realising it, for his smile widens into a leering grin. "Come on, don´t be so modest. I bet you were as eager to feel him up as he was to grab the needle. Why don´t you share a few details over a beer?"  
  
Victor´s brows crease. He has never liked to talk about his assignments, and he fails to comprehend the fun in mocking a target. If the situation were different, he would probably challenge the sturdier man here and now. But he can´t let his annoyance show. He will maintain his professional demeanour at all cost. This is a promising task, after all. He can´t jeopardise his plans for the future by failing.  
  
Victor inhales smoke, letting it out in a long, soothing exhale, being aware that his companion´s gaze flits over his hands and face, searching for signs of nervousness. With practiced ease, Victor takes on an indifferent expression. His companion smirks and gestures towards several cans on the table.  
  
"I don´t see how telling you how I seduced him is part of my task," Victor replies evenly and drops a pile of ash deliberately onto the nearest of the small containers.  
  
"I apologise," the man replies, ironic. "I forgot that you´re a man of honour. What if I paid you for the report?" The leering smile is back.  
  
Victor´s eyes narrow dangerously, and his counterpart stretches out a hand and tuts. "Let´s skip the fun, then, and get back to business." He pries a bundle of banknotes from his jacket, counting out several on the table. With one swift movement of his palm he assembles them into a neat pile which he pushes toward Victor, winking. "There you go - the second instalment. You know there´ll be a third, so do keep up the good work."  
  
Victor´s lips curve in a smile formed to match his companion´s. Anyone would be fooled by his charade. Only a higher-than-average observant human being would recognise it as fake.  
  
"You´ll not be disappointed," he says, drops his cigarette in his stale cup of coffee, and reaches out to take the money. For a split second he hesitates, the image of Sherlock panting beneath him clouding his inner vision. The spell is broken when he touches the crisp banknotes, and when Victor raises his eyes, he has again recovered his expression of indifference.  
  
The other man´s laugh is a low, rumbling sound more threatening than inviting. "I believe you," he says, and gets up. "You´ll get a text when we´re ready. Try to avoid raising any suspicion – I´m sure you can´t be too careful with our nosy friend."  
  
Victor leans back, stuffing the money into the back pocket of his jeans with one hand while grabbing his cigarette with the other. "As you´ve been pointing out so appropriately, he´s far too occupied to get suspicious," he replies.  
  
His counterpart´s lips twitch. "It´ll only be reasonable to keep him occupied, then," he says, his enormous paw resting on Victor´s shoulder. "We are counting on your… outstanding talents."  
  
Victor shakes the man´s hand off. "As I told you: you´ll not be disappointed," he repeats firmly.  
  
The man raises an eyebrow and gestures for Victor to leave. As Victor takes hold of his jacket he notices his hands are shaking slightly. High time to be off. He needs to settle several other bargains.

* * *

"I could have started on my task already if you´d let me in. Please." Sherlock cocks his head, staring at the woman at the desk with his most childish pout and puppy-eyed expression. He loathes this display of silliness, even though it is necessary to get him what he wants. Obviously, his contorted features register as "cute" with her, for she smiles and pushes a strand of black hair back behind her left ear.  
  
She giggles nervously, not meeting his eye. "But I can´t," she chirps. "You have no clearance to enter the laboratories. I can only let you in when you present authentication or a form signed by Mr. Wainwright himself."  
  
Another puppy-eyed gaze from him leaves her blushing. "But that´s what I´ve been trying to tell you," he whines. "There is no paper. At least not now. Wainwright has ordered me to get down to Level C immediately. He said he needed my expertise on an important analysis. You know how he can get when he is being kept waiting." Sherlock runs his hand through his curls, displaying his distress. A peek through his fingers shows him that the girl is watching him intently. She blushes again when he turns his blue-eyed gaze fully on her. He twitches his fingers, as if being nervous of his superior´s reaction and bites his lip. "You know, I can´t really afford to call his wrath upon me. He was so kind to take me into his team, after all what happened… he would be so disappointed…" Sherlock´s voice falters and he tugs nervously at his sleeve.  
  
Now it is her who twitches, her eyes dark pools of pity. "Oh. Oh, yes," she stammers, embarrassed. "You don´t need to explain. But still…"  
  
Impatiently, Sherlock catches himself thinking that he should have resorted to simply picking the lock of the research facility´s main door instead of trying to win the receptionist over. He heaves a deep breath and tries his last resource: begging.  
  
"Please." His eyes fill with fake tears, his hand travels to his chin as if to stifle a sob. "I need this assignment. It´s my first real important task – if I can´t prove I´m reliable, they might send me back."  
  
The girl pales, and Sherlock inwardly rolls his eyes. Does he really need to make up a ghastly story of his pathetic existence as a user to make this stupid member of staff understand that he needs access to the laboratory – now?  
  
"Alright, alright." The girl´s hands disappear under the desk and emerge again with a smart card. "There you are. But I´ll need your accreditation later – otherwise I´ll be in trouble."  
  
He blows her a kiss, smiling, snatches the card and turns in one fluid movement.  
  
"Ah, Sherlock?" Her voice is steadier now, tinged by a trace of coquetry. He stops dead, not willing to turn back at her, and she giggles nervously. "You owe me, you know? Tuesday night after work?"  
  
He needs to get going, and quickly. Stifling a sigh of exasperation he turns to flash her a beaming smile. "Of course, Diane. I´ll be honoured."  
  
When he walks away he could swear he hears her contented intake of breath.

* * *

The laboratories are eerily silent and dark this time on a Saturday evening. Sherlock passes several doors, but meets only four or five members of staff on his way to the elevators. Three levels down it is even quieter, the humming of the air-condition drowning out any smaller sounds. He silently wonders whether this is how a beehive sounds from the inside: a steady, regular humming, calming and homely, only changing its pattern when faced with a threat from outside. It has been a long time since he has been feeling similarly content. The rhythm of his life has faltered, getting more irregular with every passing year. Only the music he plays on his violin provides a sense of equilibrium these days. And, surprisingly, Victor.  
  
Sherlock smiles to himself as he finally steps into the room he has been searching. The unpredictable is so much less boring than it´s opposite. He has all the time in the world to find an answer to the questions raised by his latest report. Smirking, he starts to roam the table and the surrounding cabinets for samples of the drug. When he catches the first drop of liquid with a pipette, he has finally and blissfully retreated to his own realm, his world of analysis and reason.  
  
A text chime propels him back into reality. He blinks at the concise message, dazed. "Got a third one. Can you come?"


	9. Traitor Heart

Greg Lestrade watches as Sherlock picks up the victim´s right hand with latex-gloved fingers. The young man´s brows are creased, his lips drawn into a thin line. Greg is once again impressed by Sherlock´s energy and intensity, his fluid movements, the expression of concentration he wears whenever he is confronted with a crime scene.

Greg remembers being the object of this energy when he attempted to cuff a strung-out younger Holmes. Sherlock had tried to dodge past one of Lestrade´s officers to flee from the raided club when the man tackled him. He had nearly managed to free himself of the policeman´s grasp when Lestrade manhandled him to the ground and restrained him. Sherlock, who had used all his strength to shake Lestrade off, only gave up the fight when Greg assured him that hitting a Yarder wouldn´t improve his situation.

Later, in detention, Sherlock greeted Lestrade by announcing facts about his private life and his wish to get promoted to the homicide squad. Lestrade, inwardly impressed that a user coming down from a high could be that perceptive, nearly regretted his harsh words from earlier. His regret changed to sympathy when Sherlock´s father arrived, radiating cold fury. The subdued conversation of father and son extinguished any spark of resistance in the younger man, and Sherlock appeared meek and disimpassioned in jail and later in court.

Lestrade shifts and crosses his arms on his chest, a habit he adopted in the long hours of questioning suspects. He wonders not for the first time what Edward Holmes had said to his son to defeat him so efficiently. Thankfully, the youngest Holmes seems to have much improved. Not only is he in a respectable job, he has very quickly become an astonishingly valuable addition to Lestrade´s team. Still, Greg seems to detect a note of unhappiness behind Sherlock´s mask of indifference. He has noticed that the dark-haired man fingers his mobile frequently, impatiently checking for texts. He has noticed how Sherlock´s eyes light up every time he lights a cigarette, and has found himself questioning the man´s sobriety. But Sherlock hasn´t given Greg any cause for mistrust, so he keeps his observations to himself.

Still, something doesn´t sit right, to the extent that Greg has started to doubt whether he should have let Holmes in on this delicate case. But then again, he is intrigued by what Sherlock is able to reveal by only looking at a body. And Lampard from the homicide squad was right: Greg wants to support him. For all his flaws, Sherlock appears to be a good man.

Greg smiles slightly at the thought when Sherlock straightens and tugs at the gloves, still deep in thought. They don´t have much time left, the forensics team itching to examine the scene and take photographs. Greg winks at Lampard, who has been hovering nearby, and the elder officer nods his approval.

"What have you got?" Greg asks, and Sherlock seems to come back from whatever far-away place he has been in the past two minutes. He directs his sky-blue gaze towards the Yarder, wrinkles forming at the base of his nose. As if sending a knife into an opponent´s stomach, he punches the air tightly with his right hand.

"He was stabbed, like the last one. Except not in his heart but in his spleen. The bruises and welts on his body indicate that he´s been tortured. He´s been a heavy user, the track marks on his arms and carotid are unmistakable. Malnourished and dehydrated – most likely his murderer held him hostage for some time. He is tanned, but as we still have early spring, he can´t have spent the winter in London. I´d say he only recently returned from somewhere south. His mobile works with a prepaid card. It would be too expensive to use overseas, so he´s likely been provided with it recently. It´s pretty battered and you can spot traces of a white substance on its edges. Probably cocaine, so it must have been used by someone who handles drugs on a regular basis. All data on the calls has been deleted, except one. Whoever left him here wanted to let us know whom he called. Check the number and you´ll know who he worked for."

Sherlock stops as sudden as he has been quick in delivering his explanations and fumbles his cigarettes out of his jacket´s pocket. His hands shake slightly as he lights his fag, but the first blissful intake of nicotine stops the suspicious movement.

Lestrade, who has been eyeing him scrupulously, gestures for him to continue. "Nothing else?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Your turn. This death is clearly connected to the last two. Same weapon, same killing method. But you need more input to analyse why these men had to die."

Lestrade uncrosses his arms and crouches down beside the body. "It´s a bloody drug war," he mutters. "Someone is trying to get a message through. Probably wants to reorganise the market, wanting to get rid of his competitors. These people have died because someone´s hungry for power."

Sherlock takes a deep drag. "It´s about market share," he agrees. "Who gets the customers can dictate the prices. I noticed the smaller businesses vanished quite quickly when Small´s influence got more prominent. You might want to talk to him."

Lestrade gets up. "We´ll take a blood sample," he says, as if he hasn´t heard Sherlock´s last words. "Might tell us whether this is about quality or a new substance altogether." He looks at the younger man. "You bought from small dealers?"

"A new drug?" Sherlock asks back, avoiding Greg´s curiosity.

"There´s been reporting of a new hallucinogenic," Lestrade replies. "It hasn´t yet appeared in any of our raids."

"I would assume it hasn´t," Sherlock mutters under his breath, and Greg´s eyes narrow in suspicion. Before he can pose his question, though, Sherlock raises his hands in mock surrender. "Please, inspector. The British legal System and the NHS were quite successful in purging me of any desire to indulge. I´ve come across a peculiar substance in my work."

"Which you aren´t supposed to tell me about since it´s classified," Lestrade replies, exasperated.

Sherlock nods. "Exactly." He ponders the fag dangling from his fingers and lets it drop. "Let´s just mention it is a hallucinogenic, too." The glowing butt gets crushed under Sherlock´s right boot. "I might be able to find out about its effects."

Lestrade catches up quickly. "Are you meaning to tell me that a classified substance might have found its way onto the market? And are you telling me you are going to try it?"

Sherlock heaves a mocking eyebrow, his expression just a tad bit too innocent. "I was only implying that my work in a research facility might contribute to your investigations."

A small smile plays around Lestrade´s lips. "Were you? Well, in this case I guess I can only warn you to be careful. Your father is already not very pleased by the fact that you are working for me. He wouldn´t be amused if you lost your job because your investigations for the Yard interfered with it."

Sherlock, who has lighted another cigarette, throws his head back, exhaling. "I know. My father has never been able to conceive that everything is related." He turns and looks straight into Greg´s eyes. "That´s why he was never successful as a scientist."

* * *

The small street lined with Georgian houses is calm for a central London neighbourhood this time of the night. The quiet is shattered by the sound of a motorbike which glides effortlessly over the asphalt, reducing its speed and sputtering to a halt in front of one of the larger buildings. Its owner stops the engine and removes his helmet, but keeps his gloves. If anyone were watching the brown-haired man he would see nothing unusual, just a biker glad to have escaped the starting drizzle. He would neither remember the man´s face nor the colour of his hair, as darkness has returned to the street as soon as the bike´s lights went off.

Old habits indeed die hard, Victor thinks wryly as he fishes for the key to Sherlock´s flat with gloved fingers. Although he has purchased gloves of the lightest material he could find, getting hold of the small pieces of metal is still a challenge. He loathes giving up the dexterity of his fingertips. Gloves, even the thinnest, impair his sense of accuracy. But they have saved him from getting detected more than once in his questionable career.

Victor slides through the front door and takes the stairs to Sherlock´s flat two at a time. As soon as he reaches the right floor, he feels it. Something is off. Should anyone ask him to explain how he knows, he would probably reply he feels smothered. As if the air were condensed. It indicates danger.

Cautiously, he opens the door. The living room is dark, a candle on a saucer the only illumination. Victor takes a step forward and freezes when he hears a high-pitched whimper, followed by several unintelligible words. Sherlock.

Victor rushes toward the hunched figure on the carpet, fearing to find him barely conscious. He recognises his mistake when the younger man lunges at him, his hands at his throat, his knee connecting solidly with his stomach. Victor nearly topples over, but manages to take a step toward the chair, letting himself sink back into it, taking Sherlock by surprise and down with him. Fortunately, his hands are free, and while he uses his left to claw at Sherlock´s strong fingers, he uses his right to punch his friend´s solar plexus.

Sherlock gasps, surprised, and the grasp of his hands on Victor´s throat weakens. It takes Victor just a second to propel them both to the ground, turning Sherlock onto his belly, and straddling him by sitting on his back and taking hold of his arms. Sherlock twists and swears as Victor holds on as tightly as possible, using one hand to card through the younger man´s hair. More than twenty minutes pass before Sherlock´s resistance wanes. He shakes his head, as if to clear his mind, and starts mumbling incoherent phrases.

"Let me… I haven´t meant it like that, please! I need to get out, leave me. I can´t focus. I can´t… please, don´t" His pleading tone is so unlike his usual self that Victor worries for a minute whether he´d better leave and call an ambulance on his way out. Instead, he stays and continues stroking Sherlock´s dark curls, soothing him. After what seems an eternity, Sherlock finally turns his head. "Vic?" he asks, his voice still weak.

"Shhh, I´m here," Victor answers, loosening his grip on Sherlock´s hands. "You had one hell of a trip."

"I know." Sherlock´s voice is nearly back to his usual tone, but he sounds tired. "It was an experiment."

Victor, now sure that his friend won´t try to attack him again, releases him and helps him into the chair. Sherlock runs a hand over his face. He is even paler than usual, and his hands are shaking badly.

Victor, who has crouched down in front of him, gets up and fetches a glass of water. "What did you take?" he asks. Sherlock takes a large sip and throws his head back, closing his eyes.

"Something new," he says. "Something which made me imagine things, made me aggressive." He looks at Victor. "It´s probably been introduced to the market recently."

Victor stares back. "How do you know?" he asks.

Sherlock turns the glass in his hand, sweeping his thumb over the rim. "The murders I´ve been called to help investigate. They are connected. Lestrade suspects someone attempts to dominate the market." Sherlock´s sky-blue gaze meets Victor´s, and his lips curl in a wry smile. "At least I´ve found out that whoever wants to distribute this substance will need to alter the formula." He heaves a deep breath and starts shivering.

Victor, who was about to ask several more questions, gets up and drapes a blanket around Sherlock´s shaking form. "Let´s get you to bed," he whispers into his friend´s ear, and Sherlock nods and follows him on unsteady feet.

* * *

Sherlock wakes several hours later, his head still spinning. Victor greets him with a genuine smile and offers him a neat line on a mirror´s shard they had named "Alice" several weeks ago in a fit of silliness. Sherlock smiles back, but shakes his head.

"It won´t be good enough," he says, his voice transporting mischief and a twinge of sadness. He gestures vaguely toward his arm. "I need it to become a part of me," he says, as if confessing a well-hidden fact.

Victor pushes the shard aside. It hadn´t intentionally been part of his plan to introduce the younger Holmes to injecting cocaine, but Sherlock has adapted very quickly to this method of application, transforming it into a ritual they shared every time Victor spend the night with him. Sherlock has repeatedly explained that he uses as some sort of self-medication, as a means of morphing into his better self. But this confession is new.

Victor runs a hand through Sherlock´s curls, trying not to get distracted by the younger man´s contended sigh. He feels a very odd mixture of detachment and tenderness towards his friend, and closes his eyes to chase the latter away.

"Of course it´s becoming part of you once it´s in your blood," he replies.

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at him, his gaze serious. The dim light illuminates Victor´s face and naked torso, hollowing out his eyes and cheekbones with shadows, highlighting his cheeks, throat and collarbones. Sherlock swallows, caught by Victor´s beauty, and he settles one hand on his lover´s knee, caressing it softly, moving his fingers upwards toward his thigh.

"I´ve been waiting for something or someone to help me focus, to understand me all my life," he says. "And now, you are here, igniting me. When you are not, there´s still the coke."

Sherlock´s voice has dropped to a whisper at his last words, and his fingers start to draw indefinite circles on Victor´s thigh.

Victor stares back at him for a moment, inwardly cursing his assignment. They have known each other for two months now, but usually Sherlock has been his snide, evading self. Victor had seen some signs that the other man might have fallen for him, but he has never heard anything resembling a confession of love. But here it is – making his task even more difficult. He answers in the only way he can think of at the moment: he takes Sherlock´s restless fingers in his right hand, guides them upwards and kisses his knuckles. To prevent any more words between them, he bends down, covering Sherlock´s body with his own, and attacks his face and neck ferociously with tongue and hands.

It doesn´t take him long to make Sherlock forget every single word he might have wanted to add.

* * *

Later, he wakes to the sight of Sherlock propped up in their bed, releasing the tourniquet. Sherlock´s eyes are already distant and clouding over.

"I could probably stop easily, if I could have you – all of you," Sherlock whispers. "But most probably you will never truly be mine."

Victor stares at the younger man, perplexed by the truth in Sherlock´s statement. As Sherlock´s eyes close, Victor can still feel his intensive gaze. He feels as if his lover´s blue eyes had just pieced his traitor heart.


	10. High Hopes

The sky is dark, heavy clouds encouraging the night to settle much sooner than it normally would on an April evening. The cobblestoned pavement of the narrow Soho street is dark and slippery with rain, the odd drenched tabloid´s page lurking for a pedestrian´s tired step. Mycroft, dropped off by his cab driver at Oxford Street, is rather unsuccessfully trying to shield himself from the heavy downpour. Every now and again, he nearly collides with fellow citizens who, like him, are attempting to regain their dignity by clutching their umbrellas or who navigate from one dry spot to the next, huddled in their coats, eyes fixed on the pavement.

Mycroft would much prefer to enter the cosy interior of his favourite French Brasserie than to step into the gloomy and slightly shabby Chinese restaurant his brother has agreed to meet him in. The dim light, treacly Chinese music and ubiquitous, cheerfully winking lucky cats are potent reminders that Sherlock has chosen this venue because he knows that his elder brother would never regard it a proper place for dinner. Mycroft suspects that Sherlock´s refusal to meet him at his flat or a more appropriate place is just another wordless confirmation of his resistance to being orchestrated. Ever since his teenage years, Sherlock had resolved to tell Mycroft of his discontent by subtle signs rather than protesting openly. It has become a secret language between them, one which their father was never able to read, one which has saved Sherlock from greater difficulties in more than one instance. Had Mycroft insisted on meeting his brother elsewhere, he might very well have jeopardised the brittle truce the brothers have formed after their last conversation, when Sherlock agreed to meet the Detective Inspector.

Mycroft smiles tightly at the small Chinese lady who directs him to his table. He hopes that his sibling will meet his part of the deal and appear. He has been strangely unavailable lately, detached and erratic, and Mycroft has been able to gather only scarce information about Sherlock´s doings. There´s one detail in particular which needs to be looked into, and Mycroft hopes they can talk reasonably about it.

Forty minutes later, Mycroft finds himself confronted with his younger brother. Sherlock, who has not bothered to use an umbrella despite the rain, has arrived dripping wet, his curls straightened out nearly to his shoulders. Despite his imperial demeanour, he looks outright miserable. His eyes are blood-shot and his features are paler than Mycroft remembers. He picks at his food, continually avoiding Mycroft´s eyes, absent-mindedly staring into the void.

Mycroft, who has finished his miso soup, points at Sherlock´s plate of stewed duck.

"You´d better finish your meal. It´s getting cold," he says, and Sherlock finally looks at him.

"You sound like Mummy," he replies, disgusted. "Ever considered that the announcement of a family dinner does nothing to spur my appetite?"

Unfazed, Mycroft meets his icy glare. "The last time you lost your appetite was in rehab, where no family members were allowed to visit."

Mycroft´s remark has the desired effect. Sherlock lets his chopsticks drop and rounds on him.

"Not everything in my life is connected to drugs," he hisses, secretly hoping that his acid tone might divert Mycroft´s attention from his appearance.

"Oh, but nearly," Mycroft replies, unimpressed. "At least until recently, if I remember correctly." He bends forward, fixing Sherlock with a stern gaze.

Sherlock glares back. He wonders whether it is paranoia or only his sense of perception telling him that Mycroft is secretly rejoicing that he is the sensible one, as he always was. He leans back, tensing. "Well, nowadays, nearly everything in my life is connected to paperwork," he replies sarcastically.

Mycroft fixes him with a stern gaze. "Speaking of which, I was wondering whether you could elaborate why Andrew is missing several samples of a very secret, very delicate substance from his labs. Probably you could tell me whether the twitching of your fingers is in any way related to this incident."

Sherlock looks at his brother, his face blank. He had taken care to decant the liquid into neutral vials and filll the numbered ones with water before he left. Obviously, security regulations in this particular part of the laboratories must be much tighter than elsewhere in the building. By his estimation, the fake samples should have been found after two weeks at the earliest.

"Are you providing me with a case?" he asks, his voice scathing.

Mycroft´s brow twitches and he smiles tersely. "The Curious Incident of the Opium-Eater in Denial?" He shakes his head. "Please, brother mine. You know exactly what I am asking."

Sherlock, who has been fiddling with one of his chopsticks, lets the tiny pieces of wood drop and spreads his hands out on the table. He sighs, his features taking on the innocent expression of a ten-year-old. "It was an experiment," he mumbles, meek. "I thought I could convince Andrew to let me work in the labs if I were able to provide him with more details on the formula of this particular substance and its effects."

Mycroft leans back, folding his arms. If he didn´t knew his brother better, he would probably fall headlong into the trap of believing him. But he knows Sherlock´s acting skills only too well. He fleetingly wonders what he could possibly have missed in the past two months, whether and how far Sherlock has already strayed from the path their father has installed for him.

"Consequently, you took some, in the assumption you could avoid talking to father," he replies. "Did it ever occur to you that arguing it is a logical course of action to take a drug is one of the first steps into addiction?"

Sherlock snarls. "You certainly don´t need to remind me of your vast knowledge of the psychology of addiction," he says, voice tinged with contempt. Inwardly, he curses his inability to stay detached. He takes a deep breath and relaxes his hands, which he has involuntarily curled into fists. When he continues, his features are neutral.

"I needed to try its effects," he says. "I needed to prove to Wainwright…"

Mycroft leans nearer, his eyes narrowing. "Please allow me to differ. I would assume the only thing you need to prove is that you are finally getting a grip on life."

Sherlock nearly jumps up at this remark, but Mycroft is quick enough to grab his forearm and stall his movement. The brother´s faces are nearly meeting over the table for a second, Mycroft´s eyes dark and determined, Sherlock´s full of fury.

"You´ll probably better explain all of this to father," Mycroft says, his voice even.

Sherlock glares back at him. "Do you actually believe he would listen?" he spits. "Do you really assume I´d encourage him to tell me, again, how useless I am? That I should thank him for having everything arranged for his black sheep of a son?" Sherlock´s voice is dangerously low. "I will never convince him to listen. It´s futile to explain anything to the great Edward Holmes, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes´ brother has watched the colour return to Sherlock´s features. He notices the lines of anger forming around his brother´s eyes and mouth, and the nervous twitch in his fingers. It is true, their father had stopped listening to his younger son a long time ago. And Sherlock, in all his stubbornness, has ever since refused to comply with his father´s wishes and ceased to be diplomatic whenever he couldn´t see the reason behind his father´s decisions. Sherlock´s dabbling with drugs has only added to destroying what small amount of trust Edward Holmes might have been willing to offer him. Consequently, he has started to form Sherlock into the son he wanted rather than wait for the son Sherlock could be to develop.

"You could be more diplomatic, you know," Mycroft can´t refrain from remarking. Sherlock only grunts and rises from his seat, abandoning the dire remains of his meal. Looming over his elder brother, stray droplets sinking into his jacket´s fabric, he stares down at him, his gaze icy.

Unfazed, Mycroft meets his eyes. "Anyway, father requires your presence for Mummy´s birthday dinner. A car will be ready on Friday evening. In the meantime, you might like to explain Wainwright why you entered the labs."

Sherlock, who has picked up one of the chopsticks, points it threateningly into Mycroft´s face. "I don´t think I´ll need to bother," he says. "The sooner Wainwright releases me from his facility, the better."

Mycroft laughs drily. "How wrong you are," he says. "Remember, Friday. Be there – I would loathe to spoil my inferior´s weekend by assigning them to a manhunt."

Sherlock nods curtly and turns his back on his brother. He doesn´t see the small wrinkle on Mycroft´s forehead, an ever so subtle sign of worry.

* * *

"Still among the living?"

Sherlock smiles. This is the first time in twelve hours that his mobile´s screen has lit up, and he is delighted to hear from Victor. They haven´t seen each other in the past three days. Knowing that he wouldn´t be able to fool his family about his state of sobriety, Sherlock has requested Victor to stay away from him for a few days, thus diminishing the incidents when he would most desperately require a hit. Nausea and a slight fever have been his companions instead, but at least he feels presentable enough to convince the whole Holmes Manor household of his unspoiled health

The past evening and night have passed like a dream. The arrival of his father´s black Jaguar. The hatefully unobtrusive humming of the limousine´s engine as it took him into Oxfordshire. The accustomed privacy the tinted windows and cushioned back seat provided, shutting out London. Mycroft´s familiar presence, oddly reassuring. His fatigue upon arrival, their early dinner with their mother, and Sherlock´s escape to the stables and his old tree house later in the evening. A secret fag shared with Merton, his father´s driver. The calming smells and sounds of his room, where he failed to fall asleep until the early morning, his skin crawling with want, his thoughts revolving around Victor.

Sherlock´s mobile chimes again, startling him out of his thoughts.

"Don´t tell me you´ve only retreated to your mind palace. In this case, you could have stayed in London."

Sherlock smiles as he types his answer. His mood is lightened considerably by the fact that Victor seems to be eagerly awaiting his return.

Victor´s reply is short and to the point: "Go fight your battle, then – and come back to me for the feast."

Sherlock is still smiling as he pockets his mobile, his hands in his trousers pockets, his eyes on the shrubs outside. It is so much easier to cope with Victor being his auxiliary. Perhaps the impending confrontation with his father might much easier to muster than he anticipated.


	11. Confrontations

"Ah. Your Highness is gracing us with his company." Edward Holmes collected voice does not match the bright spark of anger in his grey eyes at all. His disapproving gaze lingers on Sherlock´s unruly curls, his rumpled jacket and his nicotine-stained fingertips before it settles on his wife´s features. His eyebrows knit in silent accusation.

Sherlock knows exactly why he is once more the object of his father´s disapproval. He feels already drained, void of any energy to fight. The elder Holmes detests inaccuracy. He fears that Sherlock inherited too many of the Vernet´s artistic talents, of their liberal streak, to aspire to a reputable existence. Witnessing his son´s inability to blend in with his peers becoming a serious problem ever since he had entered school, he had very early lost faith in Sherlock´s talent to survive unguarded, and established a strict regime. Sherlock, for his part, started rebelling as soon as he was old enough to understand that he would never win the same acceptance as Mycroft. In fact, in an act of cowardice, he has done many things over the past years to attest to his father´s assumptions. Being late for dinner is only a small act of disobedience amongst many others.

By now, he has certainly strayed far enough from the path his father had outlined for him to finally be able to break free, he thinks wryly, as he sits down. The comforting cushions of the ancient chair, the presence of his mother, and the dim early evening light streaming in from the garden are oddly soothing. He has felt antsy and agitated all afternoon, trying to suppress the feeling of being trapped and his longing for his flat, for the white noise of a high. He stares at his hands, wondering whether they will betray his frayed state of mind, and Mycroft sends him a concerned glance. The wordless question of what has taken him so long to attend their meal lingers in the air, but he pointedly ignores it.

He nods politely at the housekeeper as he is served with a plate of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and starts cutting his meat in silence in the hope that he will not be immediately addressed by his father. He feels his mother´s questioning gaze on him, gives her a wan, reassuring smile, and tries not to focus too much on the conversation or Mycroft´s and his father´s expression and gestures. They are discussing their usual, drab topics: issues of foreign politics, the new tax laws and the upcoming election. Sherlock finds he really can´t be bothered to follow their argument about who will be the new Prime Minister. He chews down chunks of beef without really tasting them, his eyes taking in the darkening hedges behind the large windows, his thoughts finally settling on Lestrade and his investigation. Blessedly absent-mindedly, he sips at his wine when his father´s voice, scathing, startles him out of his reverie.

"Sherlock? Are you even listening? What is your opinion – can the situation in Iran be resolved by military intervention?"

Sherlock twists the stem of his glass in annoyance. "I´m not interested in politics, father," he replies evenly.

Edward leans back. "I would have assumed living in the capital contributed to enhancing your interest in the work of our government. But I agree you might have been too occupied during your first months in London. Hopefully, that will change."

Sherlock looks up, feigning indifference. He will not let his father see how much his remark stung. He straightens. Now is as good as any time to address the delicate topic of his profession.

"Well, living in London has contributed to enhance my interest in crime. Scotland Yard has called me in to consult on a case."

Edward smiles tightly. "The Inspector who arrested you had questions about a murdered junkie, I recall. I wonder what you hope to achieve by looking at dead bodies."

Sherlock feels his mother´s gaze settle on him once more. From the corner of his eye he can see that Mycroft has laid his knife and fork down, his forehead furrowing in anticipation.

No, this time he will not give his father the satisfaction of letting his anger show by shooting back snide remarks or shouting. For once, he is sure of himself and what he intends to convey.

"I don´t look, I observe," he replies. "I assume I am better than anyone on the Police force is at reading the victim´s life story and drawing the right assumptions about the time and method of killing. I want to help do justice."

"Do you?" Edward´s eyes are dark. "Don´t you agree that such a position requires at least some sense of responsibility? Something which you, as I might point out, haven´t shown too much of ever since university."

"I know what I´m doing," Sherlock states. "What I want to do."

That earns him one of the looks his father has passed on to Mycroft: a shifting of eyebrows and focusing of grey irises that leaves its victim with the feeling of having been x-rayed and pinned to the wall like a butterfly. Thankfully, he has known this look long enough to be able to stay completely unimpressed.

"Obviously, working for Andrew is not what you want to do." Edward´s voice has risen. "Although something tells me you will be quick to assure me that sneaking into a secret lab and stealing samples of a classified substance is perfectly responsible behaviour." Flecks of red appear on his cheeks, first signs of his rising fury.

Sherlock still feels he can win this argument. He must. "I needed to…" he starts, but is cut off immediately.

"You needed to?" Edward shouts. "I guess you needed to examine the properties of cocaine, too? You needed to frequent dodgy establishments to help the police forces?"

Sherlock´s hands start shaking, but he manages to stay calm. His father knows far too much about his first lonely nights in London and not even the tiniest bit about his deepest desires.

Edward fixes him with a cold stare. "Anyway, Andrew has most probably lost all confidence in you. Last time we talked, he was less than pleased by your attitude toward your colleagues. That you manipulated a young, trustworthy woman to gain access to the laboratories secretly might very well be the last straw. I can hardly protect you from your own stupidity, but I can put you in a position where your mistakes won´t mean the end of your career."

Sherlock winces. He senses a reprimand coming. The way Mycroft fiddles with his fork and stays silent indicates that his elder brother knows what is coming. They have plotted against him, again. He frowns. Why he should be punished for a banality when his superior and even his closest relatives regularly use similar methods is completely beyond him.

"Had scientists avoided danger, where would mankind stand today?" he mutters under his breath, ignoring the warning touch of his mother´s hand on his.

His father´s eyes narrow. "Please speak up, Sherlock, if you have something to say."

"Had scientist avoided any inconveniences, mankind would still live in the Dark Ages," Sherlock sneers, his voice louder, his shoulders tense. "You banned me from research. I had an important analysis to conduct. Thus, I used my resources to get access to the labs."

"You used your talent as an actor," Edward says. "You could have discussed the issue with Andrew, but obviously your plans were dodgy enough that you weren´t willing to lay them open. Am I correct to assume the facility deals with mind-altering substances on a regular basis?"

"I wasn´t attempting…" Sherlock nearly shouts, his self-control evaporating.

"I am sure it was all for scientific purposes. We´ll certainly be expecting call from the Nobel Prize committee soon. In the meantime, to sustain your physical and psychological health, I deem it wise to transfer you to a less alluring assignment." Edward hesitates, taking in Sherlock´s tense posture and the flush in his cheeks. "Your assignment with Andrew is ending at the end of the month. You will continue your work with another of his departments in Yorkshire. It is rather convenient that you haven´t quite settled into your flat yet."

Sherlock flushes red and stares at his father, livid with rage. "I am not leaving London," he manages to announce, teeth clenched.

Edward´s features are collected, his folded hands resting on the table. "Of course you will. As much as it is highly regrettable that you need to be relocated, I hope you are grateful for that second chance. We can talk about further steps once you´re settled." He picks up his fork and jams it into a piece of potato.

Unbelieving, Sherlock stares at his father. He neither feels his mother´s reassuring touch nor notices Mycroft´s uneasy shifting in his chair. Silhouettes and sounds start to blur and he starts to shake with anger. It can´t be true. His father can´t just reassign him to a spot in some godforsaken place in the north. Not when he has finally found a place he feels at home in, a person he loves. He realises that his knuckles are white from clutching the cutlery too tightly. When he tries a bite if his now tepid food, it tastes like sawdust.

* * *

Later, Mycroft finds him at the back entrance to the manor, smoking. He is greeted by the butt of Sherlock´s cigarette flying in a perfect arc towards his expensive Italian shoes.

"You knew he wouldn´t sanction any disobedience," he says. "Just try to be more accommodating. He means well, after all."

Sherlock looks up and snorts. "I doubt it," he says. "I´m tired of being forced to comply with his wishes. I´m tired of your interfering. Leave, Mycroft."

Mycroft tilts his head. "As you wish, brother. But keep in mind that it is yourself you need to be rescued from every now and again."

"A very wise insight, Mycroft. Now go." Sherlock lights a new fag, the tiny flame of the match illuminating his features. Mycroft wonders whether his brother really has lost weight in the past weeks. Ever since the news of Sherlock´s arrest he hasn´t been able to stop worrying. It is ridiculous. His younger brother should be able to fend for himself by now. And Mycroft can´t spend time and energy on speculations. Dismissing his uneasy feeling, he pushes himself away from the wall.

"Why don´t you come back inside, play something for mother?" he asks after several seconds of silence. Sherlock looks up.

"Tell me, since when do exiles celebrate their eviction?" he asks, slowly, as if speaking to a very ignorant listener.

Mycroft sighs. "It´s not eviction, it´s a new chance," he says. "And she would love to hear your music."

Sherlock stares at his brother, his eyes an indecipherable dark blue. After a few seconds, he shakes his head.

"I can´t," he says, very quietly. "Please go, Mycroft."

When Mycroft disappears behind the door, Sherlock nearly calls him back. But the voice in his head which mocks his most recent defeat stops him. It´s no use anyway. He will always appear to be a failure to his father.

* * *

Sherlock feels his anxiety dissipating marginally, his heartbeat slowing, as his father´s sedan pulls toward the main gate of Sherrinford Manor. Anger at his father´s decision is still pulsing though him, and although he feels lighter and more himself, he hates to be confined to the back seat of a car. He´d rather storm out for one of his long, agitated walks or let off steam by practising on the martial arts Mycroft had insisted he learned several years ago.

For once, his brother has allowed him some privacy by refusing their mother´s wish to accompany him back to London. Sherlock feels actually grateful that he has escaped so easily, even though he suspects he will be monitored rather closely in the upcoming weeks.

He heaves an exasperated breath and runs a hand over his face, pushing it into his curls. The sudden memory of Victor´s fingers lingering on his neck makes him smile. When Merton, the driver turns to ask him for directions, he nearly snaps at the man, feeling caught. He demands to be dropped off at Oxford, before he slumps back in his seat.

Fleeting memories of similar journeys swamp his mind, drowning out the sight of the Oxfordshire hills rolling by. The unwanted image of him being transported in a police car, restrained and coming down hard, emerges, and he shakes his head in attempt to clear his mind. When it vanishes, it leaves his skin crawling with anticipation. To calm himself, he lights a fag, thus breaking his father´s unwritten ban on smoking in the family´s cars.

"Sorry. Can´t meet you in Oxford. Errands." He has nearly missed the message. Now he wishes he had. Disappointment threatens to add fuel to his anger, and he had no desire to get upset with Victor. Not when his friend is only kept from meeting him by walking a quadruped, sharp-fanged beast in Hyde Park. The idea of showing Victor Oxford, probably staying at a remote B&B for the night, is far too sentimental anyway. They are not a couple, after all.

Too afraid to examine this question in more detail, Sherlock leans forward to give new directions before he lets himself become enwrapped by smooth leather, slowly but steadily dozing off.


	12. Trust and Mistrust

Sherlock sleeps soundly, the familiar humming of his father´s sedan lulling him into a dream where he is running from an unknown, powerful enemy. He can feel Victor´s harsh breath on his neck, but when he tries to look back, he can´t. The deserted streets and the claustrophobic feeling of being trapped among narrow walls evaporate when he feels a firm hand on his shoulder. Trying to make sense of his surroundings, he blinks and looks up into Merton´s concerned face.

"We´ve arrived, Sir," the driver says, and Sherlock extracts himself from the comfortable leather seat. He stumbles out of the car, and Merton´s hand shoots out to steady him.

"Easy there," he soothes, and Sherlock feels a pang of regret. Most members of the Holmes household have known him since he was a child. There had been times when he felt more loved by the cook or the gardener than by his parents. Frequently, his heart aches for the care and attention he´d experienced then, but those days are irrecoverably over.

He shakes his head to rid himself of his sentimental thoughts, and sways.

"Are you all right?" Merton asks, concerned, still holding on to his elbow.

Merton had probably been instructed by his father to watch out for any suspicious changes in his condition, Sherlock´s inner voice is whispering contemptuously. He looks at the man, blank. Part of him is fascinated by his paranoia. Merton has picked him up from dodgy clubs on more than one occasion, in different stages of intoxication, and always remained discreet about his nightly adventures towards Holmes senior. It´s not likely that he will betray Sherlock´s trust. But Sherlock knows what his father is capable of. After their last talk, it doesn´t seem wise to aggravate him further.

"I´m just tired, thank you," he replies. "Please feel free to report to my father that two days in his presence were sufficient to drain me of any ounce of energy." In fact, his fatigue is caused by two sleepless nights and one week of sobriety, but he wouldn´t have been forced to face both, had he not been called to the manor, would he?

Merton harrumphs, hiding a wan smile. "I don´t think Mr. Holmes would be able to see the connection," he says openly, before he collects himself, his face turning into a mask of indifference. "Anything else you need?"

Sherlock waves his hand, dismissing the man. "It´s actually been a long day," he explains, serious. "Plus I don´t assume my father would approve if you drove me to a club tonight. I think he will be delighted to hear that I behaved myself and didn´t even suggest it."

"Very well, Sir." Merton bows slightly.

Sherlock nods his approval and walks away, holding himself straight, trying his best to appear more confident than he feels. Merton starts the car as soon as he is fumbling for his keys, and its headlights disappear, leaving him alone in the dark.

* * *

The smell of a rotting apple and the distinctive scent of Victor´s aftershave assault his senses as he steps into his flat. He wanders into the kitchen, sheds his coat, and opens the fridge. A bottle of milk holding a meagre remnant stares back at him. Suddenly aware of his hunger, he slams the door shut. Agitated, he meanders back to the living room where he stops near the window and looks into the black night, longing for a message from Victor. He feels hollow and angry for being deprived of his friend´s company, and for the lack of information explaining why Victor hasn´t called him yet. The memory of his father´s announcement is still unsettling him, too, and he longs to get away from it all, to stop analysing any single second he spent at his childhood home and simply forget. Several minutes pass, and the flat´s walls seem to be closing in on him as if he were still at Sherrinford Manor, trapped by tradition and conventions.

Some night-dweller in the opposite building switches his lights off, leaving the dim glow of the street lamp as the only illumination. He remembers having woken to a similar semi-darkness several nights ago when he had taken the classified drug. Now that he knows about its effects, he might as well start an investigation as to where and to whom its counterpart is being sold.

Revived by this plan, he grabs his coat and keys and hurries back out into the night, tiredness and hunger forgotten in the thrill of the chase.

* * *

It is late this Sunday evening, and very quiet at the Yard. Most of the staff has left for the weekend, except those who are on a weekend shift or at work on urgent matters. The multi-storey building is rarely ever deserted, keeping watch over London from its inner sanctum, the City of Westminster. Detective Inspector Eric Lampard from the Homicide Department likes to picture the Yard as the heart of the city, contracting and expanding in tune to the swelling and receding of the capital´s veins, its streets and alleys, keeping the capital alive and safe.

He takes a swig from his beer, and chides himself for pondering an overused metaphor instead of focusing on the three murder victims whose marred faces are tacked to the wall opposite his writing desk. Three users, tortured and stabbed, left behind to leave a warning. The thought that they might have lived had they decided to give their life a turn earlier sickens him. That´s very much how Lestrade must feel frequently, he realises, and takes another drag.

There´s a short rasp on the door, and Greg Lestrade enters. He looks tired, his hair is unkempt, his shirt crumpled. Anyone who doesn´t know him well would assume he is cracking under the strain of his case. But Lampard has seen him at work often enough to know that the Inspector is one of the best man the Yard could have wished for, even though he doesn´t appear it.

"Greg." He greets the younger man with a raised hand. "You´re still in? What happened to dinner with your wife?"

Lestrade grabs one of the cans from Lampard´s desk and opens it. "My people were trying to trail Small, but the man is a ghost. None of our sources would tell us where we can find him."

"Frightened for their lives, are they?" Lampard states, sighing. "But there´s something else bothering you."

Greg nods. "We´ve alerted the A&Es to report any OD coming in. St. Mary´s called earlier this evening. They had an emergency, but were still lost on the nature of the substances the guys used. I´ll go and see the man as soon as he´s stabilised."

"So there actually is a new drug out there."

"Yes. This Holmes bloke was perfectly right." Greg steps towards the wall and traces a finger over the portrait of the latest victim. "He told me he researched a classified substance. If he is right, and a new drug is being distributed, we are facing a far bigger problem than this string of murders."

"I bet." Lampard gets up from his chair, and walks around his desk. "Would give you a lot of work, I suppose."

Lestrade turns and faces his colleague, pointing towards the map of London where the crime scenes are indicated with coloured pins.

"Whoever is initiating these attacks is sticking to a certain part of London," he says. "The victims were found only a few miles from each other, all in residential areas. Someone wants to indicate his territory very clearly."

Lampard crosses his legs. "True. Odd though, that he uses corpses as milestones."

Lestrade gives a wan smile. "Makes perfect sense for him. No one will dare to question his authority." He runs a hand through his hair and Lampard notices the crease in his forehead, his tired eyes.

"You´re sure you want to transfer to the Homicide Squad?" he asks, and Lestrade looks at him, startled.

"Yes, why?" he replies.

"You struggle to distance yourself from this case. I can see it. And if I can, the Superintendent can, too."

Lestrade takes a few steps away from the wall and sets the emptied can down on the desk.

"Do you think I´m not fit for the job?" he asks, sharply.

Lampard smiles placatingly, and offers him a cigarette. "I think you´re lousy when it comes to dealing with murdered addicts. Makes me wonder how you´ll deal with respectable citizens being murdered."

The younger man hesitates before he draws nearer, accepting the fag.

"I always wanted to be on the Homicide team," he says. "It´s the thrill of the chase, I guess."

Lampard lights his cigarette, grabs hold of his chair and sinks onto it. "And you´re a damn good hunter. If you use this bloodhound of a consultant-in-the-making, you´ll be very successful."

Greg smiles. "It won´t be quite legal to drag him along to crimes scenes," he says.

His colleague smiles back. "Since when have you followed standard procedures, Greg?"

They smoke in silence, Greg studying the pictures and notes on the wall, Lampard filing idly through a stack of reports. The sound of Greg´s mobile shatters the moment of peace.

"St. Mary´s," he says, after a short conversation. "They have found traces of an unknown substance."

Lampard nods, already grabbing his coat. "There´s your lead. Let´s see what the doctors have to offer."

* * *

Sherlock arrives back at his flat in the early morning. The tiredness has been replaced by a feeling of invincibility and clarity, but deep down the beast of an unwelcome crash is already sharpening its claws. The club, one of his favourite places to study people, had been crammed, sweaty bodies pressed into the vast blackness of a pit, illuminated by strobe lights. He had neither taken notice of the music nor of the dancers, just let himself be immersed in rhythm, movements and smells.

His first hit made the music bearable. His second enabled him to perceive the dance floor in a blur from which he could pick the information he wanted instead of being helplessly exposed to a flood of data. He refrained from using more when he discovered he nurtured an unhealthy longing to punch the barman in the face for his mundane attempts on conversation.

Only the fourth cabbie would take him, high and drunk, and by the time he reached his flat, he was weary and distastefully disappointed by Victor´s pronounced silence.

His phone rings as he is trying to open the door, simultaneously cursing his stupidity in assuming Victor would actually want him.

"Sorry for calling so early, but can you come in to the Yard later to look at some evidence?" He feels oddly angered by hearing Lestrade´s voice.

"Evidence?" he manages to choke out, every syllable slurring.

"Yeah. I need a chemist´s opinion."

Sherlock sways and needs to steady himself against the wall. "I am requested at work," he replies, defensively.

"What about before work, then?" Lestrade asks, and Sherlock pinches his nose in a feeble attempt to concentrate.

"If I can," he says, aiming for an imperious tone.

"Good." A pause. "Are you okay? You sound strange. Knackered."

"Visit to my family," Sherlock manages to reply. "Anyway, I prefer to text." He hopes to sound proficient, but the inspector chuckles.

"Oh, I see. I´ll text you some details. But do get some sleep before you read them. You shouldn´t be the one who can´t sleep because of case-work. Won´t be very useful to me if you pass out on crime scenes."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He´s been patronised enough over the past two days. "I will. Next time, just text me," he demands.

Later, in bed, he realises that he hadn´t actually been searching for the new drug, as he´d intended. It must have been his obsession with Victor hampering him. That´s what Victor is – a distraction. He will need to be more thorough. In fact, a distraction is the last thing he needs if he wants to continue with police work.


	13. Reorientation

"The druggie is here for you, Sir. The one you allowed on the crime scene recently."

Lestrade looks up from the report he is currently struggling to finish. He has solely been able to focus on the "milestone case," as he and Lampard had termed the string of murders after their third dram. Greg had returned from St. Mary´s frustrated by the patient´s reluctance to name his supplier. At least the guy had confirmed he had used a previously unknown substance. Greg regards the two young men lingering in the door to his office, and feels a twinge of anger at the constable´s harsh words. Although Porter is one of the more promising members of his team, Greg finds he can´t tolerate the man´s attitude.

"I know who my visitor is," he replies sharply. "And you should know better than to intimidate a witness."

Porter blushes, his freckled complexion clashing ridiculously with his strawberry blond hair. "Of course, Sir. I wasn´t attempting to…"

"You felt you needed to express your opinion of me as a less than respectable subject," Sherlock cuts in. "I wonder why, since you cover your gambling debts with your girlfriend´s money."

"Sherlock." Greg´s voice is firm, and his gaze steady as his consultant-in-the-making stares at him. Sherlock´s brows are drawn, his nose wrinkled, announcing an avalanche of deductions, delivered to hurt and destroy. Greg has had first-hand experience of the havoc the young man can cause when he has been faced with a strung-out, imprisoned Sherlock, desperate to point out the most hurtful bits of Greg´s childhood, marriage, and career choices. If Sherlock started deducing Porter, the man would probably simply decay, his self-righteousness vanishing with him. As much as Greg would devour the sight, Sherlock is not entitled to reprimand a Yarder.

"You were prejudiced and acting on it," Greg replies sternly. "This man is clean. Even if he wasn´t, I wouldn´t tolerate disrespect. Understood?"

Porter´s complexion takes on an even deeper shade of red. He bites his lip. "Perfectly, Sir. Mr. Holmes for you, Sir." He salutes, stiffly, and takes a step to retreat.

Inwardly, Lestrade sighs. Part of Porter´s problem is his authority complex. At least, Greg can use this to his advantage. He stops the man with a raised hand.

"One more thing: Judging on appearances and accepting obvious explanations will get you nowhere, except straight into administration. That´s the safest place to never experience real life again."

Porter, obviously unsure of what to do, draws a faint, lop-sided smile, while Sherlock, who has been watching him closely, rolls his eyes. When he officer leaves, he leans against the doorframe, raising a mocking eyebrow.

"Did you just lecture your officer not to make the capital mistake of theorising without data? I would have thought this common knowledge among the members of Scotland Yard." His voice is tired and hoarse, but nevertheless scathing.

Greg scans Sherlock´s pale features and wonders what has caused him to abandon the mask of cold politeness he displayed the last times they met. A tense, sarcastic, and irritated Sherlock appears far more authentic than the subdued version Greg had seen of the youngest Holmes recently. He remembers that Sherlock has mentioned having returned from a visit to Holmes Manor, and wonders silently what has transpired between Edward Holmes and his youngest.

Sherlock has crossed his arms, fixing Greg with a defiant stare. But Greg has no intention to rise to the bait.

"I´m not surprised that you´ve internalised the basic principles of police work. You keep on nagging my officers about them, after all," he replies, dryly.

Sherlock uncrosses his arms. "I haven´t only internalised them," he says, proudly. "So far, I have formed twelve axioms on the principles of the art of deduction."

Greg remains unimpressed. "Have you? Well, I haven´t called you in to give me a lecture on criminology. Take a seat."

The younger man shakes his head, and actually takes a step back, as if to bolt at any second. "No, thank you. Tell me what you want, so we can get over with whatever it is quickly. And please refrain from boring me with further questions about the victims. I´ve already told you everything you need to know."

Feeling his patience waning, Greg leans back, fixing his counterpart with a stern gaze. "Sit. You look as if you´ll collapse any second. There would be an awful amount of paperwork to deal with if you did. Not to mention the medical examination."

Surprisingly, Sherlock complies rather quickly, and settles into the visitor´s chair with an air of indifference. "Coffee, black, two sugars," he announces, his hands clasped under his chin.

Greg stares at him, dumbfounded. "Did you just order coffee?"

"I didn´t order it. I was saving you the effort of asking whether I´d like one, plus the small talk, by providing the necessary information. Are you aware that most meetings are a waste of time because their participants stray from the core topic? Working at a government facility has provided me with ample opportunity to examine this theory. I wonder how my brother copes with his imbecilic superiors."

Greg keeps staring at Sherlock, his anger rising. "I´d appreciate it if you kept your observations to yourself," he replies, firmly. "If you want to sulk like a six-year-old who´s just discovered school bores him, leave."

Sherlock´s eyes narrow as he estimates Greg´s reaction, but the Detective Inspector holds his gaze. They stare at each other for a few seconds before Sherlock´s features soften, and he uncrosses his legs and leans forward. "What do you want to know?" he asks, and Greg senses that this is as much of an excuse as he will get.

He lets out a long-restrained sigh. "I need you to give me a clue where to start searching for the suppliers of the new substance."

Sherlock regards him, his hands still clasped under his chin, his expression much more alert than earlier. "So it is on the market," he states softly.

Greg nods and waves at Porter, who has chosen exactly the right moment to pass his office and be ordered to fetch the desired coffee. The two men stay silent until the officer returns and hands Sherlock the paper cup. He grabs it with a shaking hand, nearly spilling the liquid, and takes a tentative sip.

Greg watches him, wondering again what he might have been up to the past night. "Enough sugar?" he asks, startling Sherlock, who stares at him darkly. "I was only wondering whether you´d start complaining about the Yard´s hospitality, just as you did the first time you were in my office," Greg elaborates.

Sherlock´s eyes narrow, and he grasps the cup with both hands, sloshing the liquid. "I only asked for a fag – and you denied me that, quoting regulations," he growls.

Lestrade smiles and leans back. Sherlock´s sour mood is really much more preferable to his subdued version. Now that he has his attention, he can get back to business.

"As I said, there really is a new substance. It´s first, unfortunate victim is currently being treated at St. Mary´s. The man was admitted last night with arrhythmia, displaying extreme aggressiveness and anxiety. He was very reluctant to elaborate on his experience, so I was wondering whether you could enlighten me about the effects of the drug."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "I didn´t say I would try it."

Greg waves a finger at him. "You told me you were analysing a similar formula. And you were positively brimming with curiousity."

Sherlock leans back, squelching the cup between his fingers. He is silent for a long minute.

Greg waits patiently. After all, it is not every day a senior member of the Drugs Squad calls in a former addict to reveal the effects of a previously unknown drug, he thinks wryly.

"Look, you´re my only source," he finally says. "If this is something new we´re dealing with, we need to know about its effects."

Sherlock picks at the rim of the paper cup, breaking off tiny pieces with his elegant fingers. He doesn´t meet Greg´s eyes when he speaks.

"It wasn´t pleasant," he says. "More like a violent dream."

Greg gets up. If smoking weren´t prohibited in this building, he would offer his consultant a fag now, to keep his nervous hands busy. As it is, he can only try to soothe him with words. "What do you mean – violent?" he asks softly.

Sherlock resumes the destruction of the innocent cup. "The substance was developed for military purposes. The first minutes I felt – invincible, I guess. Strong and courageous. After a while, though, my anger accumulated into fury, and I nearly took it out on my furniture."

Lestrade can nearly grasp Sherlock´s hesitation. "And when the high faded?" he asks, and the younger man continues avoiding his gaze.

"It didn´t go well. I can remember pleading with an anonymous enemy, and hallucinating a punishment I felt I didn´t deserve." Sherlock looks up, displaying an unreadable expression. "It didn´t go well, I assume. I remember a profound feeling of fear, too, and I can hardly recall how I got back to bed."

Lestrade pushes a hand through his hair. "Doesn´t sound like a condition anyone would strive to experience deliberately."

Sherlock frowns and continues tearing the cup to pieces. "I don´t think the drug sold by Small is very similar to the substance I used. It´s an altered formula and it is quite likely that he has acquired his own special mix." He pauses. "Small is notorious for his odd sexual preferences. I could imagine the drug works as an aphrodisiac."

Greg leans back, frowning. "A lot of people would be interested in acquiring it. And from what you have told me of Small, he would profit, too."

"He could use it for his own purposes, yes," Sherlock replies.

"But how do we get to Small?" For a split second, Greg notices the keen interest in Sherlock´s eyes. He shakes his head. "Nope. You can examine my crime scenes whenever I call you in, but you can most definitely not go undercover for the Yard."

"If you assume I would do legwork for the police voluntarily, you are sorely mistaken, Inspector." Sherlock replies, his face a mask of indignation.

Greg leans back, relieved, wondering not for the first time in recent weeks whether his consultant-in-the making is actually telling him the truth.

* * *

It is noon. The corridor leading to Andrew Wainwright´s office resounds with voices and the steps of those who hurry to make the best of their lunch break, going for a coffee or a meal somewhere in the sun.

Andrew is watching the youngest member of the Holmes family, his rumpled clothing and untidy hair. Sherlock was late for work, neglected their meeting, and needing to be dragged from his office by Connor, who reported he found Sherlock lost in thought and nearly unresponsive.

Wainwright curses his connection to Edward Holmes for the umpteenth time. He would really very much like to get rid of his obstinate employee, but he still feels indebted to Edward, and Sherlock is too good a chemist not to be a valuable addition to Andrew´s team. His manners and attitude might improve, given time. But Andrew doubts that he will be able to teach Sherlock discipline, not when even his own dictatorial father has failed in this task already.

"You are still a member of my team, you know," Andrew says, displaying a tight smile. "We only need to relocate you somewhere you won´t be able to interfere with our research again."

Sherlock looks up, his eyes blazing. "I told you before, if you allowed me access to the labs in the first place, it wouldn't have been necessary for me to…"

"I was respecting your father´s wishes," Andrew replies. "And I need the labs to be safe. They are definitely not a place where people just walk in and out as they please." Andrew´s voice has risen, his complexion taken on a shade of red. "In our Yorkshire facility, security standards are high enough to keep even you at bay." He looms over his desk, staring into Sherlock´s eyes. "You had better be grateful, you know. I would usually not keep a member of staff who poses a security risk."

"Exactly my father´s words," Sherlock mumbles. He tries to keep himself from fidgeting. Ever since his talk with Lestrade, he has felt the need to follow the lead to Small. This stupid conversation with his superior is tedious and only keeping him from more important matters. On top of it, his skin is scrawling. He looks up, regarding Andrew´s self-righteous expression.

"How helpful of you to try to save me from my 'own stupidity,' as my father calls it. You think you know me better than I do, don´t you? You assume a career with the government is the greatest achievement for a man. You despise imagination, you despise life. Life is so much stranger than you could ever imagine. And it takes imagination to discover its secrets, not paperwork." He spits out the last word as if he´s swallowed poison.

Andrew leans back: "This is all very poetic, but it will lead you nowhere, lad. A good thing your father intervened when you attempted to start a career as a musician. You´d have wasted your talents."

Sherlock´s eyes blaze with fury. The memory of his father reprimanding him for secretly applying for an audition which might have got him into a university course in music, and the following weeks when he alternated between depression and rebellion sets something ablaze deep within his soul.

"Oh, was it?" he replies, in his most scathing tone. "Because father assumed it would be preferable to dump me here, in these surroundings? Because he regarded my talent my most profound deficiency?" He jumps up, shaking. "I am awfully sorry to disappoint again, Wainwright. I´m not interested in any position you offer in Yorkshire. In fact, I am not interested in any position in your institution at all. This…" he gestures at the writing desk and the shelves behind his superior. "…stifles me. I need air."

With this, Sherlock turns and makes for the door, leaving a baffled Andrew Wainwright behind.

* * *

Once outside, he instantly lights a fag, his hands still shaking. He leans back, the solid wall of the building a reassuring presence. Several minutes pass while he tries to calm himself, and he is hardly aware of his surroundings, people passing by and the sun warming his face.

Suddenly, something shields him from the cool spring wind at his left. When he opens his eyes to check, they are met by an affectionate gaze, and a hand wraps itself around his left wrist.

"Hi gorgeous. You look as if you could need a knight to carry you away from here."

The man who´s talking wears a black leather jacket. His lips is split, and he sports several bruises. Sherlock´s breath stops for a second as he finally comprehends.

He has come back. Victor hasn´t left him.


	14. The Cold Sea

Victor has been letting things slide. He shouldn´t be that careless when on a mission, but he definitely needed his recent job. Scotland was wild and unwelcoming, as it has always been to him; the only positive part of his trip being that he was finished quickly, his fee paid as promised. He is not too sure about his London employers, though. They warned him that if he lost contact with their target again, he would find himself in a very unpleasant position. He has heard similar threats before, and wasn´t very impressed. But as he watches Sherlock strolling along the beach, his dark curls flying in the wind, his face stormy, Victor realises once more that he has taken their acquaintance too far. He was actually delighted to meet the younger man again. He had felt fond amusement at Sherlock´s anger at his absence the past weekend, and he found himself sympathising with Sherlock´s anger at his family.

They have taken Victor´s motorbike to go to the seaside. Sherlock´s tension was noticeable in how tight he clung to Victor, and in the few terse sentences they had spoken at a small fish and chips stand earlier. The gusts from the North Sea had wiped their words from their lips immediately, causing misunderstanding and awkwardness, and they had resorted to silence while they strayed along the beach, away from the small fisherman´s port.

The tide is coming in, and the broad stretch of sand has shrunken to a slim line of wet sand. Even if the wind were calm, the sound of the waves would drown out anything the two men would want to share. It´s time to walk back. Victor needs the whole picture for his report to his employers, and Sherlock has so far only talked in allusions.

As soon as Victor quickens his steps to reach the waterline, where Sherlock has stopped his rapid pacing, it all happens too fast. Sherlock shrugs out of the heavy leather jacket Victor handed him for the ride, toes off his shoes, and runs into the oncoming surf. For a second, Victor is too stunned to react. The freezing March gusts tear at him while cold water sinks into his boots. Definitely the wrong time to go for a swim. Cursing, Victor follows Sherlock into the water, his movements hampered by the force of the waves.

It takes only a few metres for him to lose ground. Sherlock, his curls plastered to his head, is already a thundercloud between the grey strati of the surf, swimming with fast, heavy strokes, disregarding the cold and the current that is threatening to take them out into open water.

Victor curses under his breath. He has never been a very good nor a brave swimmer, but he can´t afford to lose his target. Although it might be far easier, he muses sarcastically, if the Holmes boy killed himself by drowning. He has really become too attached to the younger man, he realises again, as he struggles to reach him. A loud gasp escapes Sherlock´s lips, and Victor senses more than sees that his friend´s strength is waning. With two long, strained strokes, Victor reaches Sherlock and gets hold of him. It seems to take him a lifetime to get them back to the beach, but after what seems like eternity, they feel ground under their feet. The waves are still threatening to haul them under, but both manage to stagger into the safety of one of the sheds adjoining the beach.

"What the hell did you think you were doing?" Victor shouts as he strips off his soaked jacked, searching the shed for a cloth, anything to dry them off. Sherlock has sunken down onto the floor, shaking with cold, his gaze trained on the sea. His eyes are ablaze with fury.

"Talk to me," Victor insists as he drapes an old, oily blanket around the younger man´s shoulders. Sherlock continues to stare ahead, oblivious of his surroundings. They need to get dry and out of the icy air, and fast, but Victor´s mobile wouldn´t be working after it´s abrupt bath. To make things worse, this barren stretch of land seems completely deserted.

"Come on," Victor prods, and hauls Sherlock up by the arm. "Let´s walk back to the village." Sherlock looks at him, uncomprehending, but finally and slowly he returns from whichever place he has lost himself to in the past ten minutes. He takes in Victor´s wet hair and clothes, and prods his own arm and chest, surprised.

"We´ve been for a frankly awful swim," Victor explains, his lips curling in a forced smile.

"Apparently," Sherlock replies, still light-years away. He is leaning on Victor as they abandon their shelter, but straightens when they reach the door.

"The wind is fierce. Probably easterly," he states, the lost look back in his eyes.

"This is why we had better hurry," Victor replies.

As they hasten away from the darkening sky, blasts bashing their exposed, wet backs, Victor curses his task for the hundredth time.

* * *

"Here´s your tea, my boys." The elderly women (owner of their bed and breakfast, divorced, affair with the neighbour, two dogs and one cat, shopping for her provisions at Tesco´s, drawing watercolours in her spare time) steps into their room and sets a heavy tablet on the table. Sherlock follows her every move, trying to figure out whether she´d really lived in South Africa in her youth. Despite the obvious signs, he feels he is missing something to be absolutely sure. Might, perhaps, have been Zimbabwe.

The fact that he is still freezing dulls his perception. He sighs and shoots a glance towards Victor, who is reclining in the armchair, languidly reaching for a biscuit. Victor smiles back, immediately aware of Sherlock´s attention. "This was a really stupid thing to do, you know," he says. "One simply doesn´t go for a swim in the Channel during March."

"Why would there be clubs for winter swimmers all over the coast, then?" Sherlock replies absent-mindedly.

Victor´s smile vanishes. "Oh, always the show-off, aren´t you? You could have drowned, you git."

Sherlock frowns. Images of the past hours come back to him, but he can´t quite piece them together. He remembers the motorbike ride, a blur of colours, the speed seeping into his bones, threatening to shatter his skull. If he hadn´t come down from his high ever since they left London, he would probably now be able to remember the reason why he went into the water. All he knows is searching his mind palace for happy summer days in Brittany.

"Well, obviously I didn´t," he says, more dismissively than intended, his eyes narrowing.

Victor shifts and grabs his mug of tea. "I´m just wondering what you were thinking. You looked completely spaced out."

Sherlock raises his eyes to meet Victor´s. Spaced out. Indeed. He knows exactly how people usually react when witnessing him entering his mind palace. He has had plenty of response from his school teachers and fellow students. He rarely happens to get lost in the vast halls, though. Every now and then, when he´s faced with an especially difficult problem or is feeling upset. The visit to his parents had been upsetting, indeed. He still doesn´t know how to avoid being exiled from London. But why would he choose the sea´s embrace? Sentiment? He certainly never nurtured a death wish. He shivers involuntarily as he recalls the tug of the current. Victor notices, grabs the second mug, gets up, and hands it to him.

"Here. You still need every ounce of warmth you can get," he says, softly. Their fingers brush as Sherlock retrieves his hand from the layer of several woolen blankets covering him. Victor´s fingertips radiate a comforting heat. Sherlock takes a sip of his tea and regards the flames dancing in the fireplace.

"When I went to school, Mycroft and I used to spend the summer at our grandparents´ house in Brittany," he says. "They lived at the coast. It was wild and gorgeous. I learned swimming there. Whenever my father arrived to bring us back home, I disappeared. I simply didn´t want to return to my family´s conventions. And look where I am now."

His gaze travels back to Victor, who is still crouching in front of him, their eyes on the same level. "My father has arranged for me to move. I´ll be assigned to a government lab in Yorkshire, one of Wainwright´s."

Victor whistles softly. Anyone who knows Sherlock must be completely blind to miss how fast he is connected to London. To uproot him from the place he breathes is sacrilege.

"Shut up, I can hear you thinking," Sherlock interrupts Victor´s thoughts, and the older man shakes his head.

"I wasn´t going to comment," he says, evenly.

"Yes, you were," Sherlock corrects him. He rolls the mug in his hands, contemplating. "I don´t want to leave. And he has no right to meddle with my life."

Victor stares into the mug, his thoughts not on Sherlock and his despair, but on his assignment. "When are you due to leave?" he asks, and Sherlock sends him a look bordering on skeptical. Not now, Victor thinks. He has fought too hard to lull Sherlock´s ever-observing mind into assuming he isn´t a threat. There have been instances in the past weeks when he had felt observed and dissected under Sherlock´s blue eyes. The coke usually did remedy that. But here, in this tiny, cosy room, Sherlock radiating anger and a sense of betrayal, it is far harder to distract him.

Victor hides his discomfort behind his mug. "We could find a place, disappear from the map," he suggests.

"No, we can´t." Sherlock states matter-of-factly. "Mycroft has access to resources to find me. My flat has already been cancelled. It´s most likely already bugged." He sets his mug aside, looking miserable. "I´ll be gone in four weeks."

Four weeks. That´s going to be an entirely different problem for Victor. He would love to have more time, but his employers will certainly not be pleased if he loses their target. He needs to contact them. Immediately.

Sherlock looks up as Victor rises, his gaze questioning. Victor bends and places a light kiss on Sherlock´s head. "Just need a fag. You stay here and get warm, all right?"

Although Victor places as much warmth in his voice as he is able to, he can´t shake off the nagging feeling that Sherlock is seeing right through him. "Anyway, you might want some space to figure out what to do about this," he adds, lightly. He squeezes Sherlock´s shoulder. "I can´t imagine you to vegetate in some godforsaken place – you´d go crazy."

"I can´t, either" Sherlock admits and looks up at his friend. "At least I still have four weeks left to solve my recent case."


	15. Wild Goose Chase

"Can you give me access to Scotland Yard´s database?"

Greg Lestrade swears, stifling the impulse to drop his mobile in his pint of lager to stop the infinite string of messages Sherlock has been sending him over the past three hours. Angrily, he punches in his answer instead, his thumb only lingering for the fraction of a second before he hits send. Sherlock certainly never refrains from asking the most intimidating questions, and he is never hesitant to demand even the most inaccessible data. Despite his annoyance, a smile plays at Greg´s lips, and as if on cue, his mobile lights up again.

"I need to know more about Small. Are you at the Yard?"

Trying to be polite now, are you? Greg thinks, and punches in his answer. It is a Friday night, and he is determined to enjoy his weekend, for once. If Sherlock wants information, he can bloody well wait until Monday morning.

Greg takes another swig of his beer, one eye on his mobile, but the screen stays thankfully dark. Good. The lad has probably found something else to occupy his mind. Laughter and cheer drifts towards where Greg is sitting, and he realises that he can´t remember Sherlock ever mentioning what he gets up to in his spare time, except that he plays the violin. Greg had asked whether the restless movements of Sherlock´s fingers were some kind of nervous tic when he interrogated him, and Sherlock, distant at first, had explained that he was practicing the fingerings for a piece by Sarasate. The truth, that he had done so in an attempt to calm himself, had lingered between them, unspoken, a tangible crack in Sherlock´s mask of self-assurance and arrogance. If someone had ever asked Greg when he started caring for his insufferable consultant, he would have referred to that moment.

The men at the back at the back of the pub cheer again, and Greg is suddenly certain that his would-be-consultant wouldn´t be able to enjoy anything as mundane as a football match. In fact, the young man seems to be only too keen on getting into trouble. Greg should probably ban him from the case for his own sake. There is no place for a freelance consultant at the Yard anyway, and it would simply be wrong to kindle any hope in Sherlock that there was. He´s far better off with his government job, even though it might be boring.

Greg finishes his drink, and leaves a few coins on the counter. He will call Sherlock first thing on Monday morning. Definitely.

* * *

"Useless. Complete waste of time." Sherlock slams his mobile on the table, startling Victor, who is skimming the Guardian´s headlines.

"What is?" he asks, looking up with a frown. Sherlock bounces his legs, and his hands are jittery. He has been impatient and irritable ever since they returned, and Victor has found his own patience fading fast. Not for the first time, he regrets having ever agreed to this assignment. But it is too late to drop out, actually had been from the moment the corgi sunk his teeth into Sherlock´s ankle. Victor takes a deep breath as he realises he is staring at Sherlock´s darkened features, losing himself in memories of the past months.

Sherlock jumps up from the sofa, oblivious to Victor´s attention, and starts pacing. "Do keep up," he snarls. "My connection with the Yard is. The _most honourable inspector_ won´t allow me access to his database. He tells me it´s unavailable, and he hopes I am, too."

Victor folds the newspaper, a distant part of him relieved the news he expected about a Scottish village is missing. He watches Sherlock circling the room like a caged tiger, and finally gets up and into his friend´s way. "Hey there," he tries to placate, one hand on Sherlock´s arm. "Small does only sell to exclusive customers. You just need to find someone with a connection to Small´s associates."

Sherlock jerks his arm out of Victor´s grasp, and retreats behind the coffee table to avoid getting caught again.

"I don´t have the time. I´m off to some godforsaken spot in the North, remember?" he spits. "Small could be residing in China, for all we know. There must be something I missed, something the Yard isn´t yet aware of…" He trails off as he turns towards the window and pushes the curtain aside. It is already dark, night following quickly after a day with a slate-grey sky and bouts of rain which soaked the Londoners in irregular intervals. Victor had driven him back from the sea two days ago, and even after two nights spent curled up against Victor´s back, his warmth seeping into Sherlock´s bones, Sherlock still feels worn and cold. He had woken up in the early hours of far too short nights they had spent on a wild goose chase through clubs Sherlock remembered to be associated with Small´s business. They found no further clues on the man´s whereabouts or how to approach him, and Sherlock´s mind has constantly been providing possibilities and contact´s names, none of which seemed to bring him any closer to Small. He desperately needs the Yard´s data to figure out a connection.

Or you could stop fooling yourself, and meet a very special friend of yours, his mind supplies, but he dismisses the idea the second it starts to manifest.

He feels Victor´s gaze on his back, and for the first time since they met, Sherlock is wary of explaining himself further. He turns, and Victor immediately takes a step forward.

"Sherlock, I can see why you want to wrap this up quickly. But Small is a sadist, and ruthless. Do you really think it a good idea to wake a sleeping dragon?"

"Dragons can be slain, I´ve been told," Sherlock replies with force, and turns back to the window. "But you are right. I´d better relax, before I lose it completely. Surely everything will look nice and comfortable on Monday." He waves an imperious hand at Victor. "Please leave. I need to rest."

Victor studies him, completely at a loss why the younger man´s words have been delivered in his most scathing tone. He takes a step nearer. "I don´t need to leave, you know. We could…"

Sherlock turns and regards him with his most icy glare. "Is this all you can think of, getting high?" he says, cold. "Because if this is all the support you are willing to provide, you might as well leave." He has turned into a complete stranger, and Victor shakes his head in disbelief. Sherlock´s stance and the spark in his eyes remain unmistakable.

They look at each other for a long minute, before Sherlock´s gaze softens a little, and he reaches out his hand in defeat.

"Please, Vic," he says, very softly. "You are no help. Please go."

They had talked about this, the evening before. Sherlock had mentioned, hesitatingly, how his mind would sometimes turn against him during especially intellectually demanding episodes. How he needed to retreat to a safe place in this case, cutting off communication with anyone but himself.

Victor remembers, and understands. "All right," he replies, aiming for a light tone. "I will be back, you know."

Sherlock just nods.

* * *

The night is at its darkest when Sherlock finds himself in a street he hasn´t visited for more than two years. His mobile is weighing heavy in his jacket pocket, the confirmation of the meeting point long erased, but not the feeling of uneasiness at meeting his first – and most lenient – dealer.

As Victor has acquired most of their provisions lately, Sherlock hasn't bought from anyone in quite a while. Frederic had been more than accommodating whenever Sherlock indicated he would pay for quality, and delivered the best stuff available. But he had been far too observant for Sherlock´s taste, instantly recognising Sherlock´s interest in overstepping boundaries, and nearly succeeded in talking him into taking heroin.

Sherlock frowns as he drags at his fag. He had drawn a boundary there, but isn´t so convinced anymore that he would decline a similar offer now. He feels safer than he ever did when under the influence, invincible and untouchable by the world´s petty concerns. Some part of him knows he has become reliant on the mind-altering power of the cocaine and the intimacy with Victor. His personality has been swallowed by a maelstrom which has turned his drab life upside-down. By committing himself to both, he has finally left behind the life he hates so much – he has broken the iron grasp of family obligation.

Frederic is late, and Sherlock is getting increasingly impatient. He feels numb and strangely exposed among the throng of clubbers and party folk, his skin crawling with want for a hit. A pale moon is shining, and sounds and voices reach him from far away, as if under water. He dimly regrets having sent Victor away so soon, but instantly snaps into focus as he spots a familiar fair-haired man among the crowd, hands dug deep into his jacket´s pockets, his shoulders hunched, slouching.

He pushes himself off from the wall he´s been leaning on, and takes several steps forward to meet the blonde, but Frederic gestures for him to follow, and continues walking until they have reached a dark bypass.

Before Sherlock can speak, Frederic shakes his head and shrugs apologetically.

"Sorry to tell you, but I don´t have anything," he says. "Business´s been taken over."

Sherlock frowns, radiating disappointment and anger. "If you are attempting to tell me that you´ve been paid off by my brother´s minions, you might as well fuck off," he replies.

"Nothing of the sort, mate." Frederic fixes him with green eyes. He is sporting a fresh bruise on his chin, and his hands are trembling as he lights a cigarette. "Come on, calm down," he says, and smirks. "It´s been some time. Things tend to change, you know." The smirk widens into a smile. "You haven´t, I can tell. Still addicted to danger."

Sherlock draws a step back, flicking ash to the ground.

"That´s why you´re here, aren´t you?" Frederic continues. "Thought I´d deliver some of the more interesting stuff."

"Well, I guess I did," Sherlock concedes, regarding the glowing tip of his fag. He smirks conspiratorially. "Come on, you always do."

Frederic blows out smoke, sighing in annoyance. "Sorry to disappoint. The real good stuff is with Small now. Looks as if he´s finally taken over. Delivers only to people he has met in person, they say."

Sherlock lets the fag drop to the ground and grinds it out with his foot. "So how does one meet him in person?" he asks casually, and notices a shadow passing over Frederic´s face.

"One doesn´t meet him. One is summoned," he replies, studying Sherlock´s face. "You wouldn´t like it, as you don´t like to be under anyone´s thumb."

"And if I wanted to pretend, for the sake of the experiment?"

Frederic smiles again, his green eyes scanning Sherlock´s features. "That would be you, definitely. You can always ask Razor. Had his own business for ages, and he isn´t afraid of Small. Or you can go see Small himself." His smile deepens as he draws nearer. "Who knows, with your good looks, he might hand it to you for free. You might actually enjoy his… endearments."

Sherlock´s hand shoots out, catching Frederic by the throat. "I won´t," he spits, his voice dangerously low, tinged with disdain. "Obviously you´ve been paying him your own respects recently, considering the state of your jaw." He loosens his grip, sending the younger man staggering into the wall.

Frederic claws at the cold stone, paling. "Fuck you," he swears. "You think you´re safe because you see everything, don´t you?" His voice drops to a threatening whisper. "You know what I think? I think you´re far too smug for your own good. You´ll find yourself crawling into Small´s lap sooner or later, begging for attention, all for the rush."

"As I´m not addicted, this won´t happen," Sherlock replies sternly, and Frederic laughs. "You´re always so sure of yourself, aren´t you? Take my advice. No one with good looks is safe from Small. You´d probably better close your eyes and think of the Charlie instead of playing cats and mice with him." The blonde dons the hood of his jumper and strides up toward Sherlock, who is shaking with feigned anger and craving.

"Where do I find Razor?" he asks, his voice deliberately hoarse, and Frederic shakes his head in amusement.

"So far gone, are you?" He points towards one of the buildings behind them. "Try there. But, believe me, once you associate with Small, you won´t be able to run from him," he adds in a softer voice. "Unless you leave London, that is."


	16. Into the Lion´s Den

It is just another one of these dreary days in spring when the sun appears to have been banned from the sky, grey clouds and gusty winds uniting their efforts to revive winter. Brushing ice crystals from his sleeve, Gregory Lestrade steps out of the lift into the comfortable warmth of New Scotland Yard. He doesn´t take notice of several officers wishing him a good morning as his fingers slip into his coat´s pockets only to find nothingness where previously they touched a crumpled, half-emptied package of cigarettes. He frowns as he remembers having smoked the last of his fags in front of his house, leaving behind his fuming girlfriend who hadn´t taken his leaving at four in the morning well. He had been called in for a drugs bust in Brixton, only to find a dark-haired, strung out youth in a dingy flat who reminded him painfully of Sherlock. The man wasn´t even a Brit, but Greg still couldn´t shake off his unease concerning his consultant, especially since Sherlock´s string of frantic texts had ceased a few days ago.

Tired and lost in his thoughts, Greg enters his office – and stops dead. A tall, ginger man, clad in an immaculate suit, casually leaning on an umbrella, regards the notes and pictures on the blackboard.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" Greg asks sharply. The man appears slightly familiar, but Greg can´t remember where he might have met him.

The stranger turns, raising his eyebrows slightly and mockingly. He radiates self-confidence, the only indication of unease a slight hunch in his shoulders. As he straightens, Greg is suddenly confronted with an unwavering and unsettling stare out of blue-grey, intelligent eyes.

"And a good morning to you, too, Detective. I think we have a few issues to discuss," the stranger says, his voice smooth and cultivated, the fingers on his umbrella´s handle tightening.

Greg takes a step forward, his chin raised. "And you are…" he says.

"Mycroft Holmes. You are acquainted with my brother. Please excuse me for taking the liberty of waiting in your office. You certainly agree that the chairs in the waiting area are far from accommodating. Also, your collection here," Holmes gestures towards the wall, "is so much more inspiring than a view of your receptionist´s daily chores."

"As inspiring as it might be, it is, nevertheless, confidential," Greg replies, attempting to copy Mycroft´s collected tone.

The younger man smiles, fleetingly, and threateningly. How he manages to change his expression so swiftly without seemingly moving a muscle is beyond Greg.

"If it is confidential, why would you allow my brother to see it?" Mycroft asks, passing the umbrella´s handle to his left hand while fishing for the silver chain of a pocket watch with his right. "Correct me if I´m wrong, but I am fairly sure your superiors won´t be very pleased to find a civilian involved in police work. Especially not if said individual has been charged for possession recently."

Greg takes another step towards his counterpart, his brows drawn. "I don´t see how this is your business," he replies sternly. "You are clearly a civilian, so you do surely know that no one here would be pleased to find you in my office."

Mycroft raises his chin, his eyebrows rising. "Oh, but my brother is very much my concern. Sherlock does possess the unfortunate ability to get into trouble. I simply want to ascertain whether his work for you might contribute to exposing himself to serious danger, as I would loathe disconcerting our parents more than absolutely necessary."

"As far as I´ve been able to observe, your father seemed more concerned about his reputation than for his younger son," Greg retorts, and Mycroft´s eyebrows climb even higher.

"You don´t need to explain the Holmes´ family traits to me," Greg forestalls any reply. "Why are you worried anyway? Your brother seems to be a rather clever and confident individual. He can certainly take care of himself."

Mycroft twirls his umbrella, and looks down at the floor briefly, before his gaze meets Greg´s. "Do you really think so?" He points toward one of the blurry photographs. "You are involved in the investigation of three murders which are connected with this man´s drug imperium. My brother, a recovering addict, has not answered his mobile for three days, nor has he returned to his flat. Do you really need me to elaborate on why I think he might be in danger?"

* * *

Sherlock´s patience is wearing thin as he waits in a side street off Marylebone road, sleet falling into his collar, the icy wind biting into his face and fingers. He has already been waiting far too long for his taste: first, several days ago for Razor to appear at the club Frederic had indicated, then for Razor to finally swallow his tale of his quest for the ultimate high, and after that for an appointment with Small´s consort. The three days he´d spent in voluntary confinement to Razor´s flat, in company with the man´s rather dull friends while constantly being tempted to give in to his cravings, had been agony. But they had paid out: At last, he had been left with instructions expect a grey BMW.

Sherlock wonders fleetingly what Victor might think of his prolonged silence. He has ignored his friend´s texts for nearly a week now, and stayed away from his flat for the past three days. Victor´s texts had become increasingly short and frantic. But the last thing Sherlock needed was the advice or worry of another human, especially not while he was doing his best to keep up the appearance of a depressed, desperate man. After everything he´d ever heard about Small, the man thrived on oppressing his customers. Thus, Sherlock had opted on impersonating someone who would be an easy victim for the man and chosen Hubbard, one of his fellow students at Oxford, a shy, cautious youth with hunched shoulders and a hesitating gait.

He fumbles for his third cigarette, when the BMW finally appears. As soon as he has crossed the street, a man leaves the car to discreetly pat him down for weapons, and pushes him onto the back seat. The car swerves out into the main road immediately, heading east.

The three men are silent while Sherlock tries to deduce them without raising their suspicions by watching them too closely. It doesn´t help that he hasn´t taken anything for the past twelve hours. He is too alert to be able to control the constant stream of observations and conclusions his mind is supplying, and when he shakes his head in a futile attempt to clear his mind, this earns him a quizzical glance from the skinny youth next to him. He sends the man a sheepish smile. "This weather is giving me a headache," he says, and the youth smirks. Apparently, he had sounded eager enough to convince the man he simply can´t wait for the "real thing", as Razor had termed it earlier.

Sherlock leans back and closes his eyes, quite aware the three men done this before, delivering a client to their master.

* * *

They finally reach an inconspicuous suburban home. A barren tree is keeping watch over the lawn. The windows are veiled by blinds and nearly opaque from grime. Skinny pushes Sherlock out of the car and into a dimly lit corridor where Sherlock nearly trips over a dent in a floorboard. The man who had searched him for weapons earlier, a bulky, bald fellow, laughs throatily. "Oi, all eager, are ye? Guess the boss will be delighted. He loves to see how appreciative people are of his stuff."

Sherlock turns and faces the man´s broad features. "Since you haven´t told me whom we are going to meet, I don´t even know whether I will get what I came for," he snarls, his voice shaking slightly.

The man grins. "Just you wait and see," he teases, leaning forward conspicuously. "It´s the best smack on the market, I can tell you. But, as all good things, it does come with a price."

Sherlock looks him in the eyes, licking his lips in his best impersonation of a desperate addict. "Oh, does it?" He pats his pockets. "Well, I´m quite willing to negotiate."

The man sends him a leering glance. "Not too much negotiating with you, I´d say. Considering your looks, the boss will be only too pleased to take your deposit."

Sherlock frowns, tempted to ask what the hell this is supposed to mean, but a voice from the back of the corridor interrupts them.

"There you are. Stop babbling, Mike, and bring him in. The boss is waiting."

Mike gestures for Sherlock to follow. The room they enter is gloomy, a single bulb and the screen of a large, silent TV showing the latest headlines providing the only illumination. Three men wait for them, two of them on chairs, the third stretched out languidly on a sofa, a table covered in paper cups and magazines between them.

The man on the sofa is by far the most ordinary of the three. Neither his features nor his sparse, fair hair are remarkable. He has a piercing gaze, though, and his movements indicate agility and strength. Sherlock, who so far hasn´t batted an eyebrow, shifts involuntarily under the man´s scrutiny, but wills himself not to move while he tries to ignore the younger thug´s hostile stare. The small, bulky man fiddles with an intricately forged knife of Japanese origin while his companion - in his mid-forties, military-trained, dog-lover and Chelsea fan - leans towards his boss, listening intently to hushed words.

With an elegant flick of his finger, the man on the sofa finally shoos the younger thug up to stand watch between Sherlock and the TV, blocking the exit. He pushes himself into a sitting position and exchanges a glance with his older, tanned henchman. Eventually, he licks his lips, his mouth curved in a wry smile. "Well, well, another customer," he says, his voice soft, and looks into Sherlock´s eyes. "And quite a handsome one, too. You might leave, Mike. Guard the door. And you, Mr. Hubbard, come here."

Hesitatingly, Sherlock steps nearer, all his instincts telling him to run. But he can´t give in to his impulse, not when he has come so far as to actually meeting Small, so he takes a deep, deliberate breath in the hope that his counterpart might read it as anticipation rather than fear. Small nods, smiling slightly, and the older joins his companion in standing between Sherlock and the door. Sherlock fights very hard not to turn his head to estimate his chances for an escape, but he must have fidgeted, for Small laughs.

"Oh, look at him. He´s just like all the others – assuming you two are here to threaten him when your sole task is to protect our business." Small leans back, folding his hands. "My clients all come of their own accord, so what would be the point of threatening them? I wouldn´t want to shy them away, would I?" He laughs, and his men grin broadly. Small waves a hand, and their short bout of amusement dies.

He leans forward, leering. "We are business men, you know. No cause for alarm." His voice is threatening enough to make Sherlock´s blood run cold.

"Surely not," he replies, aiming for indifference.

Small cocks his head, again licking his lips. "Oh, listen to you. What an alluring voice. What can I do to hear it more often?"

His men are grinning at that, and Sherlock frowns. Humouring Small seems to be the best option he has, so he straightens and replies: "Accept me as a customer, I´d say," he offers.

Small leans back, spreading his legs and resting one hand on his thigh. "Clever you. Indeed, this is all about acceptance." His gaze lingers on Sherlock´s torso for a long, intimidating second, and Sherlock shivers, suddenly feeling exposed. "Mike told me you wanted my special blend? What makes you believe I´d sell it to you?"

"Oh please, that´s plain. The more customers you get, the better your access to the market," Sherlock replies, not quite able to hide his disdain. "If you are concerned about the payment…"

The smile on Small´s face is intimidating. "I am not concerned at all, as you are going to leave a safety deposit." He gestures for his men to advance.

Sherlock doesn´t dare to turn, and therefore senses more than sees them approaching. "I thought we were talking business here. No need for your minions to interrupt," he manages to bite out.

"This is part of my business," Small replies, the same intimidating smile plastered on his face while he nods towards his Sherlock. The younger thug takes hold of Sherlock´s arms while the older kicks his feet apart and proceeds to pat him down for a weapon. "He´s clean," he announces.

"Is he? What a shame," Small replies, and the thugs smirks. Small watches as they withdraw, a leer replacing his neutral expression of earlier. "Strip," he orders, his fingers on his thigh twitching.

Sherlock, suddenly terrified, fixes the wall behind Small´s head with his gaze. His heart is pounding. He´s an experienced fighter, trained to survive any pub brawl, but he doubts he would stand a chance against Small´s entourage. And Small´s every gesture, every word are unsettling him.

Small eyes him impatiently, the smile gone. "Go on. I´d like to take a look at my deposit," he orders.

Sherlock swallows, noticing that his hands are shaking. "I wasn´t expecting..." he starts.

Small dismisses him with a wave of his hand. "Oh, don´t worry. You can always pay in cash. This is just my insurance in case you run out of funds." He smiles wolfishly. "Be assured I´d be delighted to collect it from someone as handsome as you." Small´s voice is soft and dreamy as he gestures towards his men. "These two can always help with the undressing. But I would neither guarantee for their patience nor the state of your clothes."

"You don´t need to." It takes all of Sherlock´s self-control to suppress his fear. If Small sells him only a gram of the new drug, this is all the evidence he needs.

Carefully, he shakes off his jacket, and starts to unbutton his shirt. Small´s grin widens, and he reclines in his chair, cherishing the sight. He nods as Sherlock meets his eyes, and the detective strips off his shirt, too, loosens his belt, and steps out of his trousers.

Small´s eyes light up with every move, until he gets up at last, steps into Sherlock´s personal space, and places his right hand flat on the spot just beneath Sherlock´s solar plexus. Sherlock catches his breath, and tries not to flinch.

"Very promising," Small murmurs. Revulsion is sending goosebumps over the Sherlock´s back. The room has suddenly become very silent, the air condensed and stifling, and he is starting to sweat. Small´s gaze travels over his torso, his hips, all the way down his legs. It feels as if he was being touched, and he shivers involuntarily.

Small finally gives a jerk of his head, and removes his hand. "How delicious," he says. "Now show me all of it."

"I beg your pardon?"

The drug lord sneers in contempt. "You heard me," he says. "Or do you want to give Dave here the opportunity to cut it all off of you?"

Holding the dealer´s gaze, Sherlock reaches for his underwear. As he steps out of it, one of the men whistles softly. Don´t let them know how scared you are, he thinks, trying to master his breathing.

"Very good." The disturbing light in Small´s eyes has grown even more intense. "Turn," he commands, his voice dark.

The man´s stare burns into Sherlock´s back. He hasn´t felt that exposed and vulnerable ever in his live.

"Dress," Small finally commands dismissively, his voice back to his previous cultivated tone. As Sherlock slides back into his clothes, he instantly feels more protected, but still far from being safe.

Small has returned to the sofa and lightened a cigarette. "Deposit accepted. You appear to be a very promising investment, Will." He gestures towards the older man. "What do you say, Rivers?"

Rivers sends Sherlock a flashing grin. "Call yourself lucky, lad. Our boss picks only the best."

"For what?"

"Rough sex," Rivers answers, and all three break into a roaring laughter. Sherlock, not quite faking his surprise and alarm, takes an involuntary step back.

"God, no." Rivers chuckles. "As a customer, of course. Except in case you can´t pay. Catch." He tosses Sherlock a small bag. "Congratulations. Welcome to the club."

Small watches as his new customer pockets the bag and picks up his jacket. He takes a drag and blows out the smoke in one long, languid exhale.

"Don´t scare him off, Rivers. He´s too precious to be alienated from us so quickly." He eyes Sherlock, his leering expression returning. "Enjoy. And remember to be careful with your funds – I am quite thorough in collecting my deposits. After that, there´s only debts left."

Sherlock pushes a bundle of banknotes into River´s hands. "I´ll remember," he says, still a slight tremor in his voice. He slips into his jacket, his mobile a reassuring weight against his ribcage.

He could leave, and call Victor. Or Lestrade. Or Mycroft. But then he would never be able to nail Small down. He needs more data. He needs to stay William Hubbard just a little bit longer. He needs to do this alone.

The bag in his pocket seems to be weighing tons.


End file.
